The water was at a standstill because of the severity of the wind, taking on the glassy sheen described by authors who are moved by personal destiny
and buy photographic postcards to capture the touched-up beauty
in which monks are chanting or the moss is growing up the north side
of the rock walls extending like the Handel aria she sang, her voice a waterfall
reaching from the top beyond the line of vision into the chasm I fell into
in my dreams later that afternoon as I seemed to keep falling into
no matter the various devices staged to prevent such an inexplicable loss of
balance in the sounds are stilled and by coincidence I feel it all
because at this time of year the shadows lengthen across the lawn
where someone makes her inarticulate way in the same direction.