These last weeks teasing into providential Reality: that your face, the only real beginning, Beyond the gray of overcoat, that this first Salutation plummet also to the end of friendship With self alone. And in doing so open out New passages of being among the correctness Of familiar patterns. The stance to you Is a fiction, to me a whole. I find New options, white feathers, in a word what You draw in around you to the protecting bone. This page only is the end of nothing To the top of that other. The purity Of how hard it is to choose between others where The event takes place and the outside setting. Day covers all this with leaves, with laughter and tears. But at night other sounds are heard Propositions hitherto omitted in the heat Of smoke. You can look at it all Inside out for the emblem to become the statue Of discipline that rode in out of the past. Not forgetting either the chance that you Might want to revise this version of what is The only real one, it might be that No real relation exists between my wish for you To return and the movements of your arms and legs. But my inability to accept this fact Annihilates it. Thus My power over you is absolute. You exist only in me and on account of me And my features reflect this proved compactness.