She glides along the top of glass
desk-hungry, unable to stand
You place a dried fig in front of her
She is barely two-dimensional
Cut open an apple. She has no hands
Dismembered flesh perfumes my mouth
Pale silk, disfigured softness
She stands there saying nothing while I eat
I try to feed her. She commands a still life
Only now do I see she requires seeds
Resembling small brown polished
receptacles for further instructions
Before this began she chose music, “Ein Wolf I’m Schafspelz”
She took charge of my imaginary presence
Which of the women is she?
She is the one who refuses to say
Yet at the same time she has arranged all of your senses
You may enter but do not disarrange or remove her veils
Lift them just enough to crawl under
center of flower, eye of needle, inner crown
If you’ve met previously you will not remember
You have no idea where her mind is
Pale instruments of your sight are no good here
You’d forgotten that change is rarely accommodation
In her presence you own a different form on the page
Her skin is bare beneath her obvious remarkable cloisters
You thought you knew how to be in darkness or light but you had forgotten to adjust for tint of underlying aura
She has no features until she chooses to show you
She’s always there but you won’t see her unless invited
Does that mean you must invite her or that she may invite you to do so?
You’ll never know who nominated you as a premonition
The room is calm because you can only see inside a deliberately ruined wooden frame
She will let you stand up eventually
You see what she wants you to see
The sound of rushing garments is completely illusory
She’s very still. It’s your thoughts rushing
She is nothing contained, everything survived
She chooses her own remedies for any lack of brightness
I think you can stand up now but only for a moment
You’ve barely looked at her
Yes, you are on your feet now. Have you found the floor?
What are the dimensions of collective memory? What shapes would you draw to mark borders?
She doesn’t bother to cordon anything off. She inhales time as it falls.
I had no idea how badly I knew her. How badly I was never alone. How often I’d been alone with her. How desperately time is her garment.
To be alone with time is not possible
To embody time is her only principle
That’s why you’ve always known her badly
She is your skin, your hidden garment, your memory
She is your unhappened escort
Her power is crushing yet she doesn’t do anything
What pours through her is waiting
You can sense her voracious calm
She is rarely visited
Have you come alone?
Where the thick woods part, where your memory hardens before a headrest
She guards every dictionary
Even now she is standing against your spine
Some call her a slip but they have only grazed her as concept
Close your eyes and see for yourself
You won’t meet anyone
You are almost present. Almost a filament. You can almost touch ether
In this gown, marriage is irrevocable
You didn’t exactly choose to receive her
You won’t change your mind
Your attachment to your own decisiveness is absurd and astounding
She’s numbered every one of your thoughts on gossamer sheets