Could be borges. Even reads like it's translated from spanish!
This is another one...
The Book of And
Time,
That bored architect,
Assumes the condition
of its constraint.
It must obey its master’s shape.
Once, a ghoul brushed lids with sleep,
Spilled lullabies into the bones of children.
But the Sandman -
Reshaped, remonstered -
Now moves like famine in folklore’s skin,
Footsteps sowing drought.
The world rewords its fables:
Welcome -
To the Desert of the Real.
The harvest spoils in its cradle,
Fruit - fermenting on the vine -
That tongues will never taste.
And we, circuit worshippers,
Summon monsters again -
Now crowned in code,
Canonized in data.
Gospels of visceral logic,
Of algorithms like angels fallen into function.
Behold:
The Book of And.
A volume without volume,
Infinite in refusal.
No page is first.
None is last.
I held it.
I thought of fire.
But feared that an infinite book
Burning
Might birth an infinite flame,
A smoke to suffocate the sun.
The kindest mercy:
To correlate all contents.
To chart the horror.
To translate the stars
Even as they blink out
One
By
One.
We: small islands of knowing,
Adrift within oceanic penumbras.
But sometimes -
The tide parts and we glimpse
The terrifying vista
Of what
is.
The light, when it comes,
Comes in a knowing
That opens the chest
From the inside.
I buried the book - the leaf -
In the only place it could be hidden:
The impossible forest
Of all other books.
Where it waits.
Welcome -
To the and
Still.