Forgive the tiny space I offer (it’s just that here in the crook of my heart, quarters are close).
Nothing rivals the way rooms readjust to accommodate bodies, nothing comes even close
to your frame in the door. All exits made into sunsets, intervals of real numbers [a, b] see too
the goose-egg of the empty set, the yolk of the day, defined by boundaries: a closed set.
There is much violence done to oysters. A certain honesty in that. People crack their whole
worlds open, spill their liquor. No one ever tells them "give it time, the wound will close."
Imagine Semele calling to the lover she has never seen or heard. In the moment he reveals
himself, nothing will be left of her but teeth and ash. Now imagine she kept her eyes closed.