[Sent from the address of a venerable spa in Zurich, in an envelope whose seal had evidently been loosened by steam. The enclosed note read: “Found this in my old hotel room safe. Wrote it for her many separations ago.” —Ed.]

A fluid state, as it was her prerogative to be,

a certain classical uncertainty

wearing, on drumming fingers, orbital rings, taking a smoke break outside space and time

(to measure her to miss her— even to attempt— even the instruments shrug, Je ne sais quoi);

nor was she, at the borderline, detained by the gendarme of her own reflexive Frenchness: she slipped between the Pyrenees as through guitar strings into the Spanish tense where the noon is long and the siesta’s dream contains all times at once; became the mood, the flesh, the very substance of the subjuntivo, which every lover longs toward…in the mesh of nontranslation, meanwhile, I remained

both coming and going. Schrödinger’s affair.

I miss her. That is neither here nor there.