(extract, Lakeland)
... By this time, in his late thirties, all those thoughts have
moulded Fritz into someone who really only feels himself
when thinking of someone else.
He continues to concentrate himself neatly
in the smaller spaces of his memory. He can turn his mind slightly
to veil some of the severity. A creative gift.
The years move very fast. He continues to neatly concentrate himself
in the smaller spaces of his memory. In his head
he carries fragments
so precious
that the wounds attached have more of a scar quality –
a kind of piecemeal arrangement of sensate images
painted from the inside. No,
more like projected from the inside.
The living screen of a man’s life, which sometimes shines
in the dark. What does he see? He has visions
that seem to forebode his death. As he stares
out to the vast nothingness of the ocean, pictures
quiver and dissolve, pouring out
through his black eyes...
