Lyre

Before anything could happen, flecks of real gold on her mouth, her eyes more convex than any others, the ground spoke, the barrier of lilacs spoke. What sang in the black tree was entirely gold. Her chair was empty. New absence is a great figure dark as the underskin of fruit. At the center of the earth it surrounds and amplifies the dead whose music never slows down. She came by car. I came by train. We embraced. It was at the foot of a hill steeply crowned with apples and a ruined fortress. Imagination did not make the world. Sweetness is the entire portion. Before anything could happen, happiness, the necessary precondition of the world, spoke and flowered over the hill. When I was in Hell on the ruined palisade, either mystery or loneliness kissed my open eyes. It felt hugely convex, seeing and immediately forgetting. By contrast, what I imagined later was nothing.