You told me a story about a What or a Who, saying you’d prefer to say neither; you’d prefer not to choose, though I wondered if the nothing in your last line is the empty set, a simple dearth, or the name of a time—maybe that infinite moment just before the Big Bang, Being Born, Dying, Falling in Love.  

It is at this point, darling, or at any other, when I turn to William Wheelbarrow Williams to say, “So. Is your idea animal, vegetable, or mineral?  Do you think it could be a Who, by which I mean, Is the Grinch’s idea of a Who down in Whoville still an idea?”

And the famous poet was gone.  I wonder if the thought of the Who, possible or imp—together with the dew-drops glistening on the petals of your moonflower vines, are enough to thing-turn the room the window opens into upstairs, her window opens and candlelight. Maybe you finda magical twist of vine in your hands—the fairy-tale rail for the spiraling stairway of leaves leafing to her room and isn’t it just as likely you’re standing drenched beneath her window, and the water running through your fingers

is her unpinned hair, an invitation

to cross from one side over to the middle

then to the other side and again and climb, 

and the moonflowers you brought

are to tuck into her long braid,

or, as if she were your queen, to weave 

into a crown for her, but any way

you choose, you might still sing to her

your song about who 

casting you both in a play, becoming

at last after unbecoming 

from nothing and no-one

at no time at all.​​​​​​​​

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