Under a fermata . . . as if the book's deckle edge . . .
With amplification your silence will inhabit
the margins of this poem
not unlike a ripening of sorts . . .
perhaps indifferent-seeming . . . at first . . .
then a buttoning-up against the cold . . .
You have become unsuited for tangentials . . .
play-acting . . . breathing in . . . breathing out . . .
trying to convince yourself
and the other (named after the main character)
that this is the language of lost things . . .
that this too is the way it is . . . as good as it gets? . . .
tagged . . . archived . . .
to be studied . . . continued . . . forgotten . . .
He/she enters you . . . becomes you . . .
The odyssey as virgule . . .
Your first tea . . . miles away . . . down the hill . . .
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| Francesca Woodman |