she is gone, cut out. from this resting place,
i long to recognize her. perhaps disguised
in a less familiar form or in a voice whose
language i cannot decipher. i am waiting.
ironically, i see her everywhere: i put her
constantly in front of me like a pair of
glasses. an image of her, an overlay.
unable to penetrate the surface, she lies flat
on top of each wide vista.
more honestly, she is like snow:
ephemeral. i cannot conjure her up in any
true sense, concrete or spiritual. she
remains cold and flat and unwieldy.
out of my domain.
this savory tirick to lure her may be
tragically flawed. too much, too little. or
am i lot's wife, turning myself to salt for not
relinquishing my past. for wanting to see
just once more. i may be bleeding to death
like some bisected creature who rather than
focusing on growing its necessary half,
wanders for the missing section.
and yet my urgency is not that of survival
but of human desire. an intimate longing
so thick and deepseated it's impossible to
wring off or extract. i look everywhere and
often, imagining her innuendo too slight or
fast or my gze too overwrought. that long
sought over simultaneity. alone in this seeking place,
a setting of crystallized salt
form, I see the lighted silver seam split.

---

Glenn Carroll / glenn@ims.uni-stuttgart.de