From the new road that overlays the old with familiar puddles of strange colours She watches me. As wind at midnight She breaks Her vigil only when Her eyelids make a blindfold. In those reprieves I feel my face redden. I am rooted, writing Her a letter — the kind you sit down to prepare with a stout pen and a thick cut of paper, with a halo of Eau de Cologne and a saintly kiss, platitudes, pleasantries, and all those things my reader mustn't miss — the kind you never send, flocked with words shepherded from wolf-harassed hills, yowling with homophones dropping out of the sky: a pale parchment of putrescence whose drying ink dies without a piece in peace. Watches me, not a reader, She. So this envelope, again, imparts this: nothing — my saliva-spliced seal — the enclosed forms she handlessly shuns. So this vessel cleaves right through Her, nestles in the place called beyond, and bursts into exuberant flames. The world stands quiet with awe; Her cloak of fire crackles — feeding time is nigh, audacious flowers fruit, so famished am I! To see Her so clearly means that She is far away, to be watched, that I am walled up in my extravagance. How lovely is Her dwelling-place — the margin is become the centre! Loose my lack; bid me come; bid me enter!