THE NIECE OF ALICE ANTOINE
When I awake from all of this I will see clearly -
where I've been and when and how. All those
things I've never wished to know : the oak tree
blemish, the solace of the cowherd and the rookery.
Look, just look, how that farmhouse holds oh so
many rooms - each lit, each almost moving.
-
My trance has never forgiven me for being. It's a
pain I must live with, and cannot live without. Does
anyone know, I wonder, how I love all things? My
forthcoming, my giving, my crucified heart - as one,
moving the equation forward, Venus to Mars and the
cosmos beyond. Into the Sun, running back, where
there really is no backwards at all.
-
My God, how can we survive? We do, and stay in
place. I watch her now, lighting a lamp, with a cloth
face and a gloved hand. Who can I call, or should?
Where can I turn to be beseeched? I am the little
wren, causing havoc in a little place. I wish to be
alone, here, with the niece of Alice Antoine.
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