our very breath. I will keep you in my pocket, a little secret, your affections newly minted. I have my own built-in blind spot: a glint in a golden eye; a fawn-colored iris, mechanical, a network of fibers; a transparent body. We can be spots of color; a texture in the open sky; an unbroken fashion behind a geometric figure; a uniform shape of blue. You can develop an opinion about fantasy summers, about sitting rooms and Hollywood-looking nineteen-year-old girls with big dreams and determination. In the morning we'll argue about the arc of acuity, at night we'll set books on top of one another, building a ramp, leaving behind our red crayons and our puzzle pictures and our silly expressions of economics and sexual gratification. Eventually it will all seem right: our primary distinctions between up and down, our pillorying of the innocent, our tremendous admiration for horses and dogs and majority stockholdings. I will spend more time thinking about great hair, about bangs that soften the forehead and cascading waves. I slip on a red dress that shows a lot of leg and practice being a sweetheart. This is the life we wanted; this is the life we are living in that house made of sun-dried brick, in that hut made of glass. This is our speeded-up motion picture, our great ball of sun going down. In the foreground we dance in a freshly plowed field, an unbroken contour of land, a deceptive circle, a ring of uniform gray.

take the road that leads toward the hills. We can gaze out at the city from the roof of our handmade palace, our many doors all bolted and locked, our hearts, big and rangy. When I'm not looking you can trace the outline of my spine with the tip of your finger, press your open mouth to the base of my neck, ignoring the disapproving expressions I see in the clouds, ignoring the sellers and the beggars and the kings among the flocks of messengers sent to drag us back down. We can fill our time with stories and jokes, you can pretend to be honored, I can pretend to be delighted. We can amuse the gathering people with heavy sighs and yawns and blinking eyes. You can run the palm of your hand around my neck, chase my freckles in zig-zagging circles. We can drop to the ground below in a rush of folly, filling our pockets with pebbles and stones as we run, our hearts beating in time with our wonder, our eyes clear and glowing blue. Later you can tell me secrets made of mountains and misplaced seashells. Later we can eat peanut butter toast as we canoe down the Rhine toward a ravenous light in the dark.

e can be a great ball of sun setting over the desert, rainbows in miniature bursting open in white light with

                    she sets the table. Here she turns her attention toward the lights in the ceiling. Here she elevates her cooking to an art form. Here she uses a standing mixer with a single ingredient. Here she cuts her finger on the edge of a bowl; here is a drop of her blood, rolling toward her lips. Here she puts the kids to bed. Here she dyes her hair a satin blonde. Here she is, in vibrant photos. Here is her new beau; here are his hands. Here he touches her shoulder with the tips of his fingers. Here he points out her flaws. Here are her flaws. Here are her jeans, her hips, and her legs. Here are her shoes, tied into knots. Here are the strings, unstrung and cut in two. Here she is, wanting more candy. Here she is, laughing. Here is her father; here is her mother. Here are her eyes. Here are her arms, swinging as she walks. Here she is lying. Here she is on her knees. Here she is, pulling and adjusting her dress. Here she is lying down. Here she says, "All right, dear." Here she is also lying. Here, she imagines herself. "Here," she says, "there is nothing to see."