I know, released, she won't come back.This is different from letting what,already, we count as lost go. It is nothinglike that. Also, it is not like wanting to learn whatlosing a thing we love feels like, Oh yes:I love her.

Is thereno savingwhat betrays itself?

I'd remember the way everyoneelse does: later, when none of it matters,memory as good as a mirror for changing things,no good at all

And now it is as we wanted it.

A stillness like that of music resting—or sex,after: what they call sadness, though itis not sadness.

Like asking at first Where am Iafter dream—and the room, in pieces, slow,comes back

a language that, all this time, we knew.

Here comes the word for mystery.Here is the word for true.

afternoons I remember still: how the lightseemed a bell; how it seemed I'd been livinginside it, waiting— I'd heard all aboutthat one clear note it gives.