The Lieby Mary Lambertuntended, unmarked, gathers darkness. But your light seems brighter for it-- Surely what I sense is nothing. But nothing is a lot sometimes. The slow loss, like dripping water, leaves smooth hollows which fill with reflection but, like the moon, are dead. Erotic, perverse, this watching, a winnowing of infinitesimal loss, like ice melting into shape-shifting ambiguity. A medium I cannot navigate! Slowly, slowly, by glint and half-truth, the combination falters and no longer opens. Your walk is not the one I knew: That clear step of integrity! The integered momentum loses its mystery and the spirit of the gait is lost. Sun angles and I glimpse the feared, grinning cadaver. My heart caroms to move past the spin of tenuous fogs that surround you in swathed cashmere softly caressing the darkness that gathers at your spine, spotlighting your capped, white smile which defies the dry rattle that echoes the tap of your shining heel. Now, only a photograph glossy with reflected neon... rippling... But in your silence, not one drip or tittle, not one falling pebble speaks---- which would be something... Not... Nothing. |
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