Crossing 18th St. heading west, she looks for the men standing outside so she can populate her mind storm with real people. Even now that he’s been gone some long months, the block still throbs in her imagination.
[The heavy curtain, the tomb can’t keep her out; it never could.] There are things that go bump in the night that live on this block and much more largely than she.
She who tore through the earth. She who rips stars in the sky. Here she’s no substance at all; all but disappeared. She’s light as a feather, at the whim of the wind, emanating no light.
She drives through and soon early evening’s spring rays [she’s irrationally sure they come from the river and not from the sky] beckon and chase her back into form, into substance, into matter.
She’ll be home soon to make dinner. By the time she cleans up, it will be dark.
Exhibition 1874 