Dear Yorgos,

In holding your swollen hands,I find a breaking.        The crackingcalloused pads of my paws do nothing.

Beside the ICU window, a fledglingcircles for hours. The bird cannot flywith its wounded wing. We watch

its patterns grow in mania. Tomorrow,the doctors tell me I must suffocate you.They echo, this is the end of life. This is the end of life.

The fledgling moves with its mouth agape.Adrift, the crushing heat on the window’s ledgelooks like a small hell. Across the Earth: Kefalonia—

the place where you grew. In this heat, you wouldcatch seabream with your hands and set them ablazeon the sands. Picking apart flesh from bone, beneath

stars and futures. In the past, we spoke of a futurewhich we would walk below the moonlit caves,where the slick walls refracting light forms a chrysalis.

On Hauntology, Fisher writes of the slow cancellationof the future.¹ The systems in place create cycles. A culturewith its mouth agape, circling below an ever-nearing death.

Dear Yorgos, I fear that I am haunted,and the future will not come. The blue skyconforms into an eye, and its glare will not break.

¹ Mark Fisher, Ghosts of My Life Writings on Depression, Hauntology And Lost Futures, Zer0 Books, 2014. Pg 12-22