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From Her Scant State.

your wings my sails
preliminary hovering
hush of the drums the consciousness
(in) question also, touch
faith in absent things

words well-muffed
smoothing her hair a voluntary laugh
attached to a spot in the carpet to get by insisting
pin-pricks what shall I gain? hungry
human being
turn inside out one letter what is one letter?
write fifty? describe all women please

vital letter curious of the thick detail
indulged in visions describe a literary woman:

would dine at a coffee-house frequent the museum

find out where unveiled burst into improper
her letter touched her occupied her eyes

consolation, allow me elation
I won't return to the subject again

energetically, systematically look at a paper of notes
"keep up the kindness and keep down the meaning"
I'm drifting to my next letter
I'll swallow my pen

At a table near the window a volume was opened at a page I forgot. Immaculate, finely-tinted. Looking through a magnifying glass--to see a full consciousness, an irritable man, she still wished to justify herself. Her worst thought a refinement of egotism like the sign of the cross or the flag of one's country. "Where's our union?" He took up one of his little brushes again in the art of eliciting weakness.

She had come--as chair to fire. Taken her place on a cushion looking up--knees, hands, lips, mind, tongue--it was difficult to interrogate firelight. Without appearing to suggest--pretty dress (dimly shining), her silence, her spoken, her liberty, her murmur. "It's difficult for me." "Because you love me." "A lady can say." "You then pay." Ah, yes.

There was less of her than the shadow of a field.

In recognition of her services to literature, they should come in search of her--drawn back behind one of the great trees. Hands rather stiffly, thin little glance. About her. Which death, reasons, fortune, motive? Her face was still here, her face was hardly. Literally, no one else. Words want perception's defect--a warmer autumn, a good garden, a half bad country. But sense upsets effect. As soon as? He left the house? Isabel listens between the lines: "sorry for," "great hope," "vanish into." Obliged to smile and twirl in exact proportion.

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Author:Tomash, Barbara
Publication:Interim
Article Type:Poem
Date:Sep 1, 2018
Words:364
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