At the back of a sonnet it was, there the thing should have been found,
for some reason not in one of those fourteen estimated lines
where none was to be read of what she had been longing for.
Precious, as always, but unseen or, may I say so, hidden maybe.
Not for nearly the fun of it. As one day observing Pissarro being observed
Being observed by Cézanne for instance.
may well have been a reason never to enter any of such sceneries.
So she crushed the insect as she had done so often before.
The fourteen lines, estimated so deeply, none of it heard the sound.
The book actually had been on the carpet half next half beneath the bed.
It had been there for several days. Morning light said hello.
A face was next to it and shadow next to that painting all other parts.
Fingertips reached the edge of the page she had been reading.
White linen, it read. I stumbled to the bathroom, got nearly half that far.