There is so little to go on： a pale

    trembling hand as I stand over you，

    my finger tracing the words on the page，

    a foreign language you are learning

    for a journey without me. You will do

    fine， I say. You will wrap your tongue

    around these sounds and be understood，

    be given what you desire： a loaf of bread，

    change for your money， an antique doll

    with violent eyes. Paintings are hanging

    on walls， behind glass， waiting for you

    to admire them. Their plaintive¹ beauty

    will move through you and you will walk

    back to your hotel through the park

    I know well. I spent years there walking

    its bridle² path， a gray cat in my arms，

    moving toward you， blind， in another life.