Winter 1992 • Vol. XIV No. 1 PoetryJanuary 1, 1992 |

A Necessary Story

Take two people. Any two people. This man of imaginary sorrow, for instance, and the woman who follows him everywhere, carrying his sorrow. Take these two for the sake of argument, for the sake of what you've come to call a necessary story. He notices the subtleties of dusk, how grass in winter at this hour turns from one indescribable shade to another. He knows the street well, the spot where workers spent weeks digging and repairing and later forgot to finish the job: now the street dips at that spot, and the cold rains gather for days at a time. He knows every bone in the human foot, has felt and counted each one on the walks he has taken to memorize this street. Now take the woman. The man concentrates on the things he can hold. She, on the other hand, can only see—and remember, months later, when they talk about this moment—how the red and blue lights on the roof of the tallest building this side of the river would flash. After a while she would see a pattern in this. And s

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