There is no capable destruction of literature:
Literature is what was always produced,
This orchestra of language, unconducted
But conducive of every thought, grammar of saying
Replicating itself, whispering, chanting, braying:
Who we always were and what we will become.
No, literature cannot be destroyed, language becomes us
Too deeply; it is only a matter of fragmentation,
Collections, acquisition and numerous borrowings:
Language itself turns into a pronoun, and we return to it
From our fiery meditations and mathematical precisions,
From eighteen, fifty, a hundred beads to the heap, sorites,
Inductor of numberless words, ink blotched into obscure tides.
Can I transfigure the world in these figures? -- I'm in a new place;
A place grown steel, a place of iron and predicates,
Technical, lofty, and maximate of craft -- this machinery,
These words, the ineffable ghost and her utter speech.
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