Dearest V.,

Halfway through a silent film, with its dark curtains and pale women, I start to think of the cello.  Did a corseted actress say your name?  Did she somehow mean eclipsed?  Behind the stage, a piano moves to lower octaves, shuddering one note at a time.  And as trolleys flicker across a porous screen, I can almost hear your white teeth glisten, like little bells.  At that, the audience applauds. 



You walk past a crystal decanter glistening near the harpsichord. Since our guests left for the ocean, with its dark enclaves and its low mumbling, the lakes have done nothing but rain.  And our dim halls become more cavernous with every evening.  When I ask why the rooms buzz with damselflies, you merely nod your head.  The shutters blow open and closed.  Our parlor hums like trees shifting before a storm. 


Saint Brigid

Or do I mean a mourning dove, rustling in the trees?  Again, the harps are quiet.  Ever since her miracles stopped, the sisters have wept and wept.  And when the organ starts up, groaning under vaults and beams, light catches the dust in every window.  Pews begin to glisten as though they were polished steel. A dark bird warbles in the nunnery while the hagiographers nod their heads, listening intently from the eaves.  

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