Though he designed mechanical birds. Cloud
ladders also, used to besiege city walls.
The hand then, which was Olympic in its grandeur,
the shape of something identifiable but
not the same name as the river. She was like a
crooked line of trees by the water that kept
on usurping your personal space. Though that memory
was out of focus still. Though he fit inside
her mind like an exquisitely gloved hand. A previous
moment, susceptible to being broken
but which became ultimately more human in the process.
Yes, she would rather have this
version of the film than relying on that memory.
No, it was not her priori belief that any
other human could be so beautiful. That is why the path
of the light took on a third world quality.
Yes, that is why she told him that when she was in love
she was more susceptible to the killing cold.
