I stare at myself in the mirror as if the components of me make up myself and I can reach you through the stars of the darkness outside my window and the outlines of my thought and all is pale, because rhyme and reason has some sensible weight that cannot be named--but you are there--only you and I it seems to me in this instant enfolded like origami into the mirror on yellow paper that bleeds with all the names of the world, but I don't believe any of this, I only say it because I'm desperate to touch you, you the sphinx in the riddle, or the moment of clarity when you are not you, and I am the mirror am not, but the world is frozen, I reach in to touch, always to touch, but the surfaces: burns: ouch! the word is spoken, what accounts for the word? So useful, so basic. Where. Are. You? I look and see a card, not origami, forget all of the origami in the world, all the paper is now but a card that lists on the table and then falls, because you are leaning in? Or I am leaning back? And I know you don't trust this crude exposition--I say it anyway, only by pressing the untruth do we escape from the lies of ourselves. I imagine, I think (though I am not I) of the children who walk barefoot, mile after mile to the wall? to the mirror? this mirror? My hand shakes, I quiver, I shake. I? No! Not me. You? No? No. Mirror? Mirror. No.

     And so the problem remains, here in a room something still or frozen, the air hangs around, outside the rain, the animals of the night.

     What color is your hair?

     You can tell me, but make it red. It needs a fable of construction and something to put in it. Forgive me! That last bit whipped away from me. Whip isn't the word. Slap, Jingle. Those are two words, it's okay to write and be unsure. I could give you a story? I like stones; the person, me, the mirror you, we all leave at once; it's outside now in the wet, just trying to walk down the street, every step too heavy, as in a dream, I, we, it, Nothing. The walk regardless, with even a low whistle.

     It's because Mr. Fox has been sighted. He is coming this way. He sees me, let's just say that, and skip over his bad vision: that a person to another person may be a blur. I reconfigure the message, and take out a no. The no flips over, underneath there's a purple cow and a lamppost, but don't you know? You? Me? No, again. None of this.

     Mr. Fox is on his toes, leaning in, Raises his hand, but the words stick in his throat: I see it happen, his jaw moves a little; the peppermint goes down, doesn't it?

     But what else--this is not what you know. And if it's to be you's and I's is that not so bad? Only to return to the idea of impermanence and longing.

     Sausage.

     Where did that come from? One must not be too serious. Or did the phrase go: not be too curious? I see a black cat at once. It's always the same, a noun leans in, an adjective jumps off the high beam: but what is this?

     Clearly, there's a room? A place to lie and put down some words on paper? To be a king or a queen today--I ramble. Oh! I again! It must stop; the resistance is genuine. Listen to the riddle, how it bends to the silent accordion.

     Hmmm. Here then as y, the letter y even, and no person. Is it wise? The lesson pulls, tears, the way is fraught with terrible coincidences: the celebrity and Mr. Fox, after he swallows-- I step out into the night in search of form, surrendering even to the reality of possibilities regarding you, me, and it, as if there's a star: I follow. Lead me on!

     But the voice if there is one, takes note of itself. The shadows squeak, there are suggestions in the maze of streets, flashes of old age and new days.

     Ahead of one, ahead of Mr. Fox, the blue envelope, or is it only a trick of the street lights through the rain, the glittering here. It must be.

     Mr. Fox speaks, smiles; he says it's just fine to meet at the barn on Thursday after all. The barn? I scratch my chin. It is there. The barn: where is it? The image in my head, a long road, and the red peeling paint barn at the end. Mr. Fox, So, I say. Have you any notion-- My voice--does it sing ever? The birds swoop low; Fox, his eyes right, left, his long, straight nose. Mr. Fox--the notion--the bells. I say about the things for the barn.

     He nods, It's quite clear. Reality is 2-D, 3-D is the Barn before the barn spoken of. And we part. I have--no, say not. Nothing more. A person: you. Again the birds, the swoop, the stepping on, a red flush to the cheeks, Bright Morning, Bright full morning day, A word or two more to say as a rhyme-note to walk to: no feet, no legs, arms, or things. Only the invisible. The way, and it's all about Mr. Fox and the barn? No, of course not. There are tire marks on the road. The cars go by, I look for the entrance to the square dream, because everyone knows that's the place to go: "If you will take it, then we shall make it, the journey sounds over the sea--so I sing to sleep, the corners of a keep broken and tossed on the floor evermore, but too deep." I turn off the light and sigh. Forever is always like this. And it ends with a sudden hello.