- for Badiou -
Observe how neatly it shakes itself free of dust.
There it is, my old four-cornered matrix
(or old bottle awaiting new wine, if you must).
An old bottler, I await my germinatrix,
who sometimes comes to line the box with germs –
though I never know precisely when she’ll arrive.
I attempt to amuse my muse in chosen terms:
“With words and parts of words, bring it alive.
Spread them out to the furthest remotes of the frame.
Conceal from them the origin of their flowing.
They’ll search for you as for their missing name.
Lead them from being through becoming to knowing.
Have them master your precept by heart: Keep going!
Keep their numbers from swelling and thinning
and grant them, again and again, their beginning.”
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