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The Untold Witch
She would sigh, if she could think of anything intolerable. her numbers fold, in planes she can not describe. Does she close her eyes for that faint red of processes? Come to me, by instinct or for mathematics’ sake. She moves in a metaphor of action. Heaven, she says, is hell remembered. Outside her gaze, I’m stranded on fraudulent heights. No tune I know is far enough out. Man is a matter of walking upright, but she suggests happiness. Her whole power is one the side of vagueness. Everything I need to know about her is just before me. What can I learn that is not already gone? Mountains rule the world because she’s from the hills. When she stands perpendicular to the sun’s rays, her light is confined. If she turns, the objective weakens. We shall not all rise, but all be modified. I see her long after she has gone away. There are whole systems she doesn’t respond to. If you look long enough everything is hydraulics. Out of a series of partial images, she is the one that detaches. If I could remember her, we might build. Will my words be fan- tastic enough to count? Whatever happens now, we have been opposite. Please believe me, I would seek you if I had the distance. Given time and invention, she will surface. She will scratch, meditate, and some story will suffer. I refuse to believe things unsupported necessarily fall. She deprives my dreams of un- reality. The hardest step to take is always the next. She is written across her face. We are what we are, momentary coincidence. She is body, speaking through body. She will claim, for instance, King Solomon planted baobabs in India. And it may be true. A fine long rain penetrates farther than storms. Food is necessary and also logic. Sometimes I’m angry, and not at anything in particular. She has seven divisions, but no borders. I could change your name, since you always wanted to be fictional. Another unsolved dream, under the bridge She has, it would seem, no natural inclination to rise. She is whatever I cannot get rid of. She’s whatever refuses to be information. She is my absence, my only secure reference. Just when I’m ready to let go, satisfaction is satisfaction. Curious text, where we’re commanded to acquire Nirvana. Nothing but impatience could prompt our abrupt recognition. she says virginity of the mind can be restored. Let me not praise her past her due. She is a heap of pebbles in exquisite random. Her laughter rings empty, where there were crowds. My arms around you, my love, are phantoms. She appears sometimes to be talking about other data. It is as if she knew a separate category. I tell her, weeping’s no proof of the resurrection. All of her is curved and alters. She can only be pictured as catastrophe. She con- fuses concepts with irony. Her thought spreads, like children running home. She finds comfort in the most outrageous limbs. The moon, according to her, is a symbol for shine. Residues provide the passion of thought. Her reflexes condition my mythology. She is the energy of my indexes. When she snarls at me, my senses sharpen. Who could expect her, without lying? She is a color outside the octave. Her rituals divide my life from its labors. She makes the right answer sound foolish. The righteous glory in their un- certainty. Two nuts represent us in divination. The only thing she comes home in is twilight. She sits in the street, making detours. Her history is rich in in- decisions. She is present, inclusive, untransformed. I do not pretend to know how the flood came. A hymn describes the monotony of her expectations. She was created from the sweat of peacocks. Children defend themselves with shame and experience. All her objects answer to the same name. Better a blank wall than simple dark. The play in her muscle de- termines where my eyes focus. She sleeps at the curve of my spine. She wouldn’t believe me, if I were to tell her.