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where she is firm

Judith and I walking in Vermont among the whirling profligacy of leaves. Under the red, under the orange, red in our pockets, orange in haloes over our head, veins of gold on the ivory-find of my fingers tracing her throat.

The skeptical world knee-deep in mounds of falling fire.

And after symmetries of autumn, symmetries of austerity. Bare winter's thin beauties, rib and spine and shoulder blades, their sharp tender curves. Her back bony-edged, my hands leaf-broad covering her. Us making love on the leaf-blanket in the cold of the year.

Walk with me. Walk time over her skeleton. Walk the white curve of Adam's rib, Eve's hip thrust. White that absorbs the least and reflects the most of light waves and rays, in spectral ecstasies at the dead of the year. When I kiss her I kiss the full of her and the dust of her. Touch Judith where she is firm and my hand passes through into empty space. Love her and I love stardust and light.

In the long frost the sky brightens and the edge of the earth is pierced by stars as sharp as the bones rimming her throat: what can be rendered visible and what cannot. The wind at nightfall: we made ourselves into the lightest of things, we Judith and Carol, sounds and silences lifting ourselves up above the gravities and seasons of life to fly lighter than light in the atmospheres of our love.

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adapted / excerpted from :Jeanette Winterson, GUT SYMMETRIES (c)1997

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