Hypothesis, Proof

Amy Dryansky

A week of nonnegotiable fantasy, days 

 of unmovable image -- in a locked room, 

against a door, in front of the window. 

I, of course, am wearing a skirt, stockings 

 holding onto my thighs. You look 

and then look down. You think 

what you think. There's only this table 

 between us -- a slight expanse 

of wood and steel, file cabinets（文件柜）, 

note-taking. You rely on me 

 and I you, not to. But I'm undependable 

with the right kind of pressure. 

I look outside at the land you love 

 clearing its throat, preparation 

for singing. We have an understanding. 

A bridge arches over the river, river 

 rises to meet it, pigeons fly out 

from the dark underneath, and starlings 

rise and fall in parabolic sweeps, glissandos 

 drawn from architecture and math, music 

almost impossible to play.