Wolf Page 4 Days in the Place Balzac - bodily dispersal - I turn out the image once more. Her dream: to wear white muslin and to live on a cliff by the sea, somewhere, someday, with me I remember hoping. Morning fields dazed in a stupor of herbicide. Earth hosting a history of guests who don’t     know when to leave. “It’s love not me rolling over in utter     indifference.” A woman bends to kiss the wooden cross that serves as her husband’s grave marker and where will the memory go once she and I and everyone else who leafed past the news photo today are     gone? A “detour of birth” you called it ... “Severed by what?” Moist flare of final thought? Fade out of distilling intuition and reasonable      foci? All that rigor married merely to inswept rumor, dust of the earth rising? How this ache the mind insists on being – How it returns once more to the soul’s ideal weight – Soul that remains all or nothing? “Yours is,” she laughed, “a predictably      romantic desire.” “Yes, but the necessity that gives rise to the desire confirms the contemporaneity of such a value.”