Epic ambition does not entertain her.
When the man moves to Tibet, she discovers
flexibility condemns her to guessing.
Then, erased from any talk of plum blossoms,
she no longer writes behold or appareled
and barring flames or new forms:, inquiry is ruled out.
She locks the door, organizes
canned food by color,
leaves silverware unwashed:
the pressure of detail.
He writes: Your letters are valuable to me . . . I can describe
to you again the obstinacy.
She reads the letter as if she were Emile Bernard,
bare feet on yellow oilcloth, a pencil
in her teeth. If she answers, she will write:
Mallarmé, intuition, and include absolute beauty
as testament for anachronism.
She crosses his name from hers—
Prints on the back of an Italian postcard:
We cannot proceed directly to Cezanne.