The Question & Silver Birches
I ask you what you want, my dear, but yet expect no real reply, for how should you answer what for you makes no sense, when even for the one who asks it has but half a meaning. The photograph burns from one near corner, eating out clothing, caressing the throat, a gaping hole; the last to go are eyes and hair and that distinct location. All that’s left is ash and mist.
The evening falters on the steps of stone descending to the sunken garden; shadows lengthen and enclose, gaining ground soft inch by inch. There at every corner, every breath, this lady of distances. But oh, to be close to your mouth, lady of voices and gestures. And where does meaning go when once so near and the word is still the single sounding, what.
Walk into the space - your presence should occupy, he said, and stand, your profile against the window. Speak. Orion and Cassiopeia give no account,
yet they appear again each night in constant regulated order, shaping your passing.