Placing

She takes hold of the mirror and lets the light of the room rest on her features. I go to the door to see what its frame has managed to enclose this morning. At the end of the driveway, above the chicories, a bird flutters as if undecided. Wanting to retain a portion of what suddenly moved me to speak, I thought about pens and cameras, but already I feel lost and far away from the place where I was first awake. I could have just as well gone over to her dresser and whispered in her ear about the flutter and the landscape of the day, but I let the moment drift in the mute corners of my chest for far too long. What to hold up when another asks for music, the traffic of the city gathering in bottlenecks, a courthouse or two people in a room trying to see. Fingers held above a hand, growing fond of a familiar imperfection. Open your heart, absurd command or mandate, like a desperate and reaching loss of words. It is going like a spider web of small invented engines. By means of our wilted senses murmuring the flowers to eachother in the dark. By trying to recall our fissured timelines and to hold in our arms what it feels like again to know. And here, in the splintered meeting grounds of the newborn age, our bodies have at last become abstracted from the world of things. We waited all day with pleasure for the possibility of coming home. I pretended that her hair was a collection of luminous strands of ink and wrote everything I thought could be put to song in the space between my fingers.