Where the city falls into the river's arms and the
cars are torn apart by the light, here where the straw and the cats
disappear. How it happens is a mystery to me.
The blue herons seem at home by the fountain. Each day I bring them a pocket's worth of
almonds. The river seems to rise a little
every morning, but so far nothing has been broken.
Yesterday I saw a school on the farthest island, but it
was only a chain being thrown against a flagpole. By noon today the
chain had turned into a moth and the flagpole was a small
brass lamp on my bureau.
Even that won't go out.
I had to paint all the windows black, it's the only way to get any rest. Here all the
doors have secret names
and the castles on the beach are, I'm sure, true castles.
I met a woman who makes her living waking sleepwalkers. She said, "In all the world they are the
most ungrateful. It's better to work
for the dead." A white speck in her left eye seemed to grow larger. I know
I imagine these things, but the
fear I sometimes feel is still fear.
The shadows of the clouds, spilled on the mountains, are as
solemn as the pacing of monks in a garden. You must know
how unnerving this is. Lightning comes and goes, estranged from
I haven't prayed for anything in
months, not rain or affection or a fence out of my childhood, or the
tourists who fall off the mountain every week
Yet I have wished for you so
often, you are almost here and in the
the shadows are bearing you in. They are hatless and it's raining You are singing on their
shoulders and I have slipped this postcard