It is true that I fell in love with you once and by fall in love I mean succumbed to your music. It was in Italy when the summer grass was cold and the jasmine fused a nimbus bluer than the moon. How it was that I saw you then, your candlestick eyes turned towards the night like a wolf’s scanning for movement in the snow
Let me tell you that I am made of neither the material of a wife nor the livery of a mother. In truth, I move invisibly across the snow. It strikes me very well that the circumference of your hunt is so narrow and the margin of your appetite falls so steep that the only way to find you is to step out of hiding
Step within a nocturne of piano where a hammer lengthens out my name
There I shall move not unlike a braid of waterfall. Let you step through me into a chthonic light where the sleep of stones and the fugues of totems have been boiled, gathered, enchanted away.