There’s space in dreams, a saddening location, to
dwell so low. I knew she was intimate with said location. I knew she hid from
daylight, ate nightmare, grilled impossibilities. I would worry concerning
consciousness, neglected from treasury, reading into atmosphere. Pure emptiness,
it must be filled with more, presence is different humanness. To assuage
a gulf, to mend a breach, many will call discussion banal. Campus gossip,
animated feelings, we might pride voice and being sung on High. One meal. One drink.
One shower. It wasn’t looking right. I knew she observed herself. I knew she
ran a marathon. I knew she played with widgets. I knew these in passing a
cemetery. I knew when it was picking at peas, washing a plate, listening to a
neat, un-silent rug. A little starving happens, so near to remain unvocal,
palming a patch nose snake. Self-examination. Refusal of entrance. I knew I’d
need to look differently, speak reality, persuade with exactness—to see in soul
more than happenstance. Such a vison, a neat pamphlet, a casual brochure—sick with
seasons, needing one at existential hospice, with one reason to hold with
determination.
