Her toes were on the wood. I saw the tips
of fingers move in the light, the blinds obscured
the day. Her slips were of an ochre color,
or was it cream? I still see how her nose
had lifted in the mirror, how her neck
exposed her moving blood. The mattress wandered
on the floor and small the apartment held
no furniture. Her legs seemed like the stems
of flowers, like the lilies that are floating
in the bayous. I can't seem to express
the mystery she put in forms, the puzzling
grammar she articulated. I am bound by
the memories I've created, I wander illusions
pretending that what I have seen is real.
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