Under the smallish light of the only lamp

she works to incorporate words, time, the

disadvantages of history for life. But the

promise of this moment, Yes, is blocked:

most impossible of knots.

         The air is stopped, the clock’s sound

cycles, Gone, Gone, Gone.  If happiness lies

in forgetting, this house is doubtless doomed:

excess of history suffuses every darkened

room.  The present’s liveness lies there with

the past, so that “feeling unhistorically’’

is wrong: a doctrine eternally undone by

concrete facts of action, finite experiences

making inner-worldly whirrings she calls love.