THE REPRODUCTION OF PROFILES|
(New Directions, 1987)
If we could just go on walking through these woods and let the pine branches brush our faces,
living would still make beads of sweat on your forehead, but you wouldn't have to worry
about what you call my exhibitionism. All you liked about trees was the way the light came
through the leaves in sheets of precise, parallel rays, like slant rain.
This may be an incomplete explanation of our relation, but we've always feared the dark inside
the body. You agree there could be no seduction if the structures of propositions did not stand
in a physical relation, so that we could get from one to the other. Even so, not every moment
of happiness is to hang one's clothes on.
I might have known you wouldn't talk to me. But to
claim you just didn't want to disguise your thoughts! We've walked along this road before, I
said, though perhaps in heavier coats not designed to reveal the form of the body.
Later, the moon came out and threw the shadows of branches across the street where they
remained, broken. Feverishly you examined the tacit conventions on which conversation depends.
I sighed as one does at night, looking down into the river. I wondered if by throwing myself in
I could penetrate to the essence of its character, or should I wait for you to stab me as you
had practiced in your dream? You said this question, like most philsophical problems, arose
from failing to understand the tale of the two youths, two horses, and two lilies. You could
prove to me that the deepest rivers are, in fact, no rivers at all.
From this observation we turned to consider passion. Looking at the glints of light on the
water, you tried to make me tell you not to risk the excitement — to recommend cold baths. The
lack of certainty, of direction, of duration, was its own argument, unlike going into a bar to
get drunk and getting drunk. Your face was alternately hot and cold, as if translating one
language into another — gusts from the storm in your heart, the pink ribbon in your pocket. Its
actual color turned out to be unimportant, but its presence disclosed something essential about
membranes. You said there was still time, you could still break it off, go abroad, make a movie.
I said (politely, I thought) this wouldn't help you. You'd have to kill yourself.
Tearing your shirt open, you drew my attention to three dogs in a knot. This served to show how
something general can be recorded in unpedigreed notation. I pointed to a bench by a willow,
from which we could see the gas tanks across the river, because I thought a bench was a simple
possibility: one could sit on it. The black hulks of the tanks began to sharpen in the cold
dawn light, though when you leaned against the railing I could smell your hair, which ended in
a clean round line on your neck, as was the fashion that year. I had always resented how nimble
your neck became whenever you met a woman, regardless of rain falling outside or other
calamities. Now, at least, you hunched your shoulders against the shadow of doubt.
This time of day, hesitation can mean tottering on the edge, just before the water breaks into
the steep rush and spray of the fall. What could I do but turn with the current and get choked
by my inner speed? You tried to breathe against the acceleration, waiting for the air to
consent. All the while, we behaved as if this search for a pace were useful, like reaching for
a plank or wearing rain coats. I was afraid we would die before we could make a statement, but
you said that language presupposed meaning, which would be swallowed by the roar of the
Toward morning, walking along the river, you tossed simple objects into the air which was
indifferent around us, though it moved off a little, and again as you put your hand back in
your pocket to test the degree of hardness. Everything else remained the same. This is why, you
said, there was no fiction.
You told me, if something is not used it is meaningless, and took my temperature,
which I had thought to save for a more difficult day.
In the mirror, every night, the same face, a bit more threadbare, a dress worn too long.
The moon was out in the cold, along with the restless, dissatisfied wind that seemed to change
the location of the sycamores. I expected reproaches because I had mentioned the word love, but
you only accused me of stealing your pencil, and sadness disappeared with sense. You made a
ceremony out of holding your head in your hands because, you said, it could not be contained in