You said something. I
can’t remember. It might
have been in bed. Or when I
stood up, and the room
acutely tilted, allowing me to
roll down the carpet, newly angled,
and out the window. At any rate,
the pool at the bottom would not have helped
at this height, and besides, so many poolside. I would have
taken a number of them with me.
You had to be right about something. But
I can’t recall. I remember feeling lighter, as though gravity had
let me go, but my mind is just a place where what happened and what might
have occurred stay close, co-editors in the mind’s eye, and they leave so much on the
cutting room floor, pasting what else. The picture
on the wall is unclear—perhaps it was a landscape—or nothing at all. There was a building
across the way, glass all up and down; it showed where we left off
What is there left on earth to be sure of. Love is darkly woven into
the heart of the world, now sewn shut.
You know what happens when you pull the odd thread, hoping to get at it.
When it was time to leave, it was clear everyone had already turned in:
the pool cleared out, the hot and heavy wind.
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