She imagines a greater love, one in which we glide through and into each other, sourceless and without boundary.
Near the flashing tower the cool city amasses for another day. The fog strokes the furry water, and hums athwart the glittery trusses. It flows down and down. And the coldness flows up and up. She imagines the body stretching beyond miles, ending finally at some other self. Here, she says. Here is where I should be going. There are no more mouths of me, no more half-moons of finger nails.
Her hand opens and there is already nothing there. There are no more fears on her wings. Her residents are all spilling out, stone by stone.
In the morning, under the tarnished sky she has to find everything. She finds her toes first, then her kneecaps. Her weighty shoulderblades sunk near the watercress. Each thing she finds she puts back and each thing is unheld and falls apart again.
Every morning the egret sinks into her body and fishes out the wordy organs. Every organ is crowded with rain. She imagines that to have a body is to make a gesture and then make it again and again. And so she does.
