Il lit sur mon lit
a phrase that came to me suddenly, in the middle of nowhere
—as I was reading.
Perhaps even I am always in bed when reading
regardless of where I am; or even, whenever I read, a he that is me but not I (moi, non je) is in bed . . .
let’s call him –remy.
Allowing all the possibilities of reduction to resound in the background.
Where what is left after all the wine has been burnt is –remy
without quite ever being sure if what remains, the remainder, is in the letters, or in the dash; that which can only be seen but not heard, that hides aurally from us but still leaves its mark, perhaps always marks me.
Keeping in mind that dashes quite possibly dash us too, break us apart. Like rocks. Though...