Colin Browne, from Abraham (Brick Books, 1987)

Initially this letter was about a fly, the preposition suggesting
estrangement, asphyxiation, or premature weaning, i.e., the
documentary text, which discovers its structural precedent in the
once-fashionable abhorrence of lactation.

The fly landed on this finger, hopped off and walked with
apparent determination across the page to the letters
h-a-r-m-o-n-y which I was inscribing longhand in celebration of
the tiny factory of perfect organs labouring within the creature
which was, miraculously, engaged in tracing the letters its
very presence, invoking wonder, had inspired.

I killed it without thinking. After thinking I'd not kill it. The
insect an orange, red-orange N [Hebrew 'alef] rupturing the syllable h-a-r-m,
to which it had so surely come, which it seemed, upon reflection,
its provocations had invited. Such was the conceit.

As for the boy on the street and the brutal rink of love, you may
find some parallels. None were intended, although you have no
cause to trust me on that. You have, I assume, your own means of
testing the text's reliability.

I don't know what followed, I got frightened. Abraham, forgive
me.