Sometimes a woman decides to lie down in bed

and get up again when she knows what’s wrong,

when she has found the words for what

is detaching her, where

where a chasm has opened.

Sometimes the woman gets up after a minute. Otherwise,

an hour. Sometimes half a day.

Sometimes a traveler arrives in a city

he finds somehow bewildering.

The customs of the inhabitants, the splendor, the light,

the rhythm food is it the accent there is something

that makes everything somehow indeterminate—

the traveler decides to leave the city when

he understands the city. This can take years.

Sometimes he never gets away again.

Sometimes a child decides to look at photos of its mother

until it knows what kind of woman and why.

A mystic with his god. A painter with his model.

The painter finds a way to tell it silently

or keeps it secret. Years later a shepherd

finds what’s left of the mystic.