A mountain. The clouds, further up, came down. A Book of Hours. A tent in which we twisted, pressed each against the other, drunk and when I stepped out into the cool moonlight, there was drifting through the watery end of the meadow, a deer pale beneath pines, beneath those soaring darknessess. Then there was only darkness, the idea of a deer. Remember, I never wanted to be alive, to have an outline. Better, I knew, to slip unheld, an opening into mist. Kate Northrop