'All the little lies follow the big lie
while the big lie is pared away.
Fading face, old friend
of my left hand waning,
of my right hand waxing:
gibbous mirror womb for womb.
Throbbing pulse and dangling watch,
globing, shrinking, hinged
where night
unhinges night.
Cause of eloquence
ending in derangement.
There could be such a thing as too much feeling.
I had meant to harvest, not to hunt.
Turn your money over,
blow ashes,
whisper “I saw you before you saw me.”'
Susan Stewart (2003), Columbarium. London & Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, p.58
