159

.
.
by withdrawing she would
allow one to trawl
the otherwise inaccessible.

.
.

158

.

obscure,
her crossings.

the most sure
forever indiscernible.

.
.

157

.

she could only ever be seen
not by those who ceased looking,
but rather by those who exhausted it.

.

.

156

.

the abyss too
was a bridge.

.
.

155

.

like her,
the world returned
their awe.

.
.

154

.

unfolding
she veiled herself
in herself.

.
.

153

her offering
was the simplest
and most natural:
that the world
would disappear
into itself.

.
.

152

.

for those who were able
to maintain a certain confidence
even the desolate wake of her absence
would be fertile.

.
.

151

.
each leaf
whether of tree
or speech
was but a withered sun.
.
.

150

.

she always entered silently,
or so it appeared
for there were those who claimed
that she never left.

.
.

149

.

for those that knew her
bathed in light was not just an expression.

.
.

148

.

those who were truly familiar with her knew
she would brook no compromise;
there were only two options:
either all would have thrones or none.

.
.

147

.

she cleared her shelf of all its contents.
then put them back one by one
until it was empty again.

.
.

146

.

others were never sure
whether she vanished within things,
or if it was things that vanished
within her.

.
.

145

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wherever the sky settled,
she would gently tread her path.

.
.

144

.

there were those, frail,
whose sustenance
was but the pale pollen
of her silence.

.
.

143

.
her world being liquid
they could bathe there,

and emerge unsullied.

.
.

142

.

she would linger
long before
and long after.

.
.

141

though her garden 
was luminous,

the things of this world
drew sustenance
from the dark.

.

.

140

.
for those she favoured,

she would reveal herself
in the gaps and chiasms
of the everyday.

.
.