Jerry Mirskin
	Morning My wife, who is often as unassuming as Ophelia, came in last night after I had gone to bed.  Where I was?  And what? No matter.  Just some lifeless golem clay, statue that lifts under her touch and flies to the wing of her mouth. And she to me? More than perpetual stasis.  More than the hard chronos that disquiets and eludes. So much that in the monument of the dark the hands began, and the mouths and lips all entering into the blind drinking and the principle of consume and be consumed was as fine as first commission. For is it not original what two working the endless math of one and one can perfect, can echo in each other? I looked out my window this morning, which is what writers do. The trees were enacting their simple vigil  of absence and creation, and I thought for a moment that would be all. But how powerful it was then to sense through the closed door, a drawer opening and soon after-- quiet steps on the smooth floor and receding stair.