You’re learning how to hold the note, I say to an aspiring novelist
All the parts of yourself, the black and the pink
Combine in an unholy alliance
And become green topiaries
Because we never see what it is. Only what we make
Because there must be love in this land
Because to be is not to be all
Because the ineffable can be named in metaphor
If there was ever anything that came out of you that was real…
To make It.
What is It?
You’ve come too far into the intermediate realm, she says, anger in her voice.