Hypothesis, Proof

Amy Dryansky

A week of nonnegotiable fantasy, days

of unmovable image -- in a locked room,

against a door, in front of the window.

I, of course, am wearing a skirt, stockings

holding onto my thighs. You look

and then look down. You think

what you think. There's only this table

between us -- a slight expanse

of wood and steel, file cabinets（文件柜）,

note-taking. You rely on me

and I you, not to. But I'm undependable

with the right kind of pressure.

I look outside at the land you love

clearing its throat, preparation

for singing. We have an understanding.

A bridge arches over the river, river

rises to meet it, pigeons fly out

from the dark underneath, and starlings

rise and fall in parabolic sweeps, glissandos

drawn from architecture and math, music

almost impossible to play.