When they left she refused to wave from the window of the train. "I began to see
smoke rising above the staircase," she explained, afraid of discovering the relationship
between her hand & the fire.
(But what was it she carried onto the train? It might have been a corsage, but it was
much too light, it seemed to weigh almost nothing. So perhaps it was a bouquet of
paper flowers . . .)
Now—should she return? The roses will be iced over & her hair has come undone.
Adieu, adieu (he laughs). His responsibility was to warn her, but the envelope had
long since been torn.
An object loses significance when the "narrative trajectory" turns away from, becomes
the sound of an instrument playing almost inaudible music—muted between marble
statues, face after face staring into the