We could not separate ourselves from our endless making. We were always fabricating time, God, paradise, the bell-shaped lupines, the rough-grained elm and smooth beech. We made the night sky from a rusty hinge, the sea from a sigh and a bead of sweat. We made love long before dawn. We constantly modified each other, adding a leer to the other's face, or a smirk, even in sleep. What kind of a tool-maker invents eternity and exile and makes them race, like a child with the index and middle finger? Even in dreams we bore the burden of waking, we called it suffering. Even in a trance we had maps and blueprints. In the deepest dream we received the gift of death—it rained on that peninsula. The wind passed like a sponge over the gambrel roofs. The leaves showed a blank side, veined like a cresting wave. We were almost home, we thought. We had never seen this world but we sensed it, like a cat's breath against our wrists: we were married, the bees loved us, the ocean might relent, the child muttered over a handful of dust and spit.
D. Nurkse - 1949-
We gave our dogs a button to sniff, or a tissue, and they bounded off confident in their training, in the power of their senses to re-create the body, but after eighteen hours in rubble where even steel was pulverized they curled on themselves and stared up at us and in their soft huge eyes we saw mirrored the longing for death: then we had to beg a stranger to be a victim and crouch behind a girder, and let the dogs discover him and tug him proudly, with suppressed yaps, back to Command and the rows of empty triage tables. But who will hide from us? Who will keep digging for us here in the cloud of ashes?