You know, it fell out of a mass of work papers being clopped together for neatness
then disposal. It tumbled out in an avalanche of rag, in an envelope of greeting, a picture of her tucked
or lost or -- with deliberation -- buried in the catacomb of meaningless words one's paid to write, but whose endless assemblage practices for the Real words finally to convince her, reach her.
The goddesses the fathers disallow rise, they say, to curse the chaste male mortal for his ogling, freezing him to stone, hunting him down like a stag, enswining him. Just for staring at mystery.
No doubt the pure coincidence we joke off, wave away with the hand -- the missive just fell out, it's old, just utter chance.
Sure, a reason, therapeutic word or two, lights up the hearth, domesticates, makes easy our anxiety in a world of snow. It just fell out.
Nevertheless, it's true, we did it, years ago -- brushed hands, nudged into one another, laughed,
and slid at a distance weaving around and about on the trail, then strayed, just catching the sound of the avalanche, that kind of cold divorce.