...again, Marie, a lot of things...

_The only way_ they tell me,
somehow forming a circle on the sloping
angle of the roof, feet and hands
gripping the shingles,
lightest of touches... _Is the way_

_we would peer into a well._
I trust them.

The chimney I can use to straighten
myself, pull myself forward
and hold me;

a pillow of itself, it opens
the vents of its oven, at once
black and focusing all
it obscures.

Cats with flames for eyes.

_Did you see_ they ask?
My face ashen, _Yes_