Unexpected, Italo Calvino

with a catch at the heart, said: “Yes.”

I went to bed but did not blow out the candle
        because I knew he was there, in the dark hold
without any counterpart
but me.   So I opened one eye,    considering my years and sorrows,   to see

what I could, anything realized,    bound around with rope to avoid falling,
as in flying from, as if the entire room was   beds of feathers
and each breath fell,

thrushes and blackbirds; and then pirates —
downed windless, and
sometimes a snipe ended black with ants in the bottom of a gully

and I ended white
        with nothing left to say, but

seized the branch above him, climbed it, moved into the leafiest part

parting my legs as if
to see me was to see her, the one he really loved, as if
seeing was knowing and then

he knew her and so himself

who thought she had been swallowed up by the earth

but no,   it hurts the eye to look out   so long to vantage a point on the room’s horizon,
to language a hover   of starry seeds
that he left, really,
to be planted in every night’s sleep, crop-dusted, weeded and dragged
with    a last senseless clutter of words
        not for him or for me, but for something far
more pronounced lasting: that

the galloping horse carried off the surname,

her name, her name…