A House of Moments V

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Seven Saints Salivate
"This is the pit of torment that placid end
Should be illusion, that the mobs of birth
Avoid our stale perfections, seeking out
Their own, waiting until we go
To picnic in the ruins that we leave."
-Wallace Stevens Transport to Summer, "Dutch Graves in Bucks County"

That they sit, he and she, at a table made for three with three chairs, three settings, but they are only two of four that take up two chairs and all the air of that room. They feed each other slices of a winter fruit, almost frozen.

There is nothing more than a fingertip they share. They share more, if you believe more than that thing, the simple ruins of living rooms and coffee tables.

They share that word often, but neither of them is sure of the word, the delicate sound in a throat, the whispered air, the bottom breath of each other.

Tonight since a long time, they are they instead of each an other.

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