DEDICATION: 9. Poem by Gian Mario Villalta

Nothing that really speaks of him,
of my brother - in what I have written -
of nothing of what I felt, which was nothing.
The word they used was accident.
Blindness in the lives where I was.

Immediately, the other one, the dead, took his place.

Then the dead occupies everything, antipsyche of my brother, antimatter
of his things, of ours, everything I have of him around me
and in my head.
He just won't leave.