Left in that hut. This is the problem with "trust." The
rock forest extending beyond an overlook above the harbor.
Its paper walls and wooden floors are almost enough, for
willed meditation, its confines, that the husband will
return. The garden is manicured for a crop of flowers.
Each must be taken sparingly. Light extends half-shadows
through the teacup pale hallway. Door open, the gown
hanging, the sacramental knife. It is knowledge itself,
the moment within its doors, that show the burden of