"How many of my executioners were charming?
The image tells us nothing about settling
scores central to the shooting or of the light brim of blood
that follows.
At the moment I'm smiling.
At the moment my criminal record empties
and there's no Lasso yet."
So in the Jean-Luc Nancy commentary--
"What image?
Did anyone see an image?
Virginie told me there won't be a photograph in her boca
fortino sámano in front of the firing squad.
Then I won't have seen an image.
But it says nothing.
I noticed that this is set in an Alexandrian.
The image tells us nothing about settling scores.
Right away, already, the cardinal line of French poetry.
It is not by accident.
It is why the cut that follows says concisely, central.
The image says nothing but the image
has par excellence, a quality of the poetic.
The image is the poem.
Absent the image, the poem will make an image in speaking--
just as 'light brim of blood' as seen
when read, when said to oneself, seen literally
illiterated in the carefully elaborated welling of red.
Virginie chooses wording the doubles blood's plosive,
insisting on the coagulating, carmine trickle to follow.
Just before it is to spill, at the moment, I'm smiling.
At the moment.
I smile now, having this moment in mind.
I smile at this moment so it will remain this moment.
I smile thinking of its eternal return.
A smile for an easy death lasting only an instant.
A smile for the stillness of the moment before it
spills, the meaning suspended in an imminence
which remains imminent.
The meaning never occurs.
The image says nothing.
Here's a poem on the ridge the edge on the brim.
This does not make a Lasso.
Not a loop that would fetter any more than Fortino was
tied in front of his killers.
His blood and his crimes empty out freely.
But I cannot not hear how the blood is caught by this no
Lasso.
The trickle of carmine makes a loop
where meaning is captured by a moment that
will never come to anything."