這首詩 - 名子，作者是第一個進入後的標題，圖謀，令人心碎的結論，整個小說突然變成一個你從未看過，甚至從未聽說過，彷彿一個接一個，你的記憶用於港口決定退休到南半球的大腦，在一個小漁村，那裡沒有電話。很久以前你吻的名字九個繆斯告別，並觀看了二次方程的包裝袋，即使是現在，你記住秩序的行星，是別的東西溜走，也許一個國家花，叔叔的地址，巴拉圭首都。無論是你正在努力記住，這不是準備在冰山你的舌頭，甚至潛伏在一些不起眼的角落你的脾臟。它漂走了一個黑暗的神話河流的名字以L開頭就可以記得，以及你自己的方式來遺忘，您將同其他誰，甚至忘記了游泳和騎自行車。難怪你於上升的半夜來查找最新的著名戰役，在對戰爭的一本書。難怪月亮在窗口似乎漂流的愛情詩，你知道使用的心臟。

The Poem - The name of the author is the first to go followed obediently by the title, the plot, the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel which suddenly becomes one you have never read, never even heard of, as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain, to a little fishing village where there are no phones. Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag, and even now as you memorize the order of the planets, something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps, the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay. Whatever it is you are struggling to remember, it is not poised on the tip of your tongue, not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen. It has floated away down a dark mythological river whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall, well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle. No wonder you rise in the middle of the night to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war. No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.