And I love you, my dear, as the log loves the mushroom,
As the wolf loves the dog,
As the duck loves the whistle,
As the tree loves the stickbug,
As the fish loves the louse that so tenderly replaces its tongue.
You are a facsimile. You are a mask. You are my darlingâs reflection in the mirror.
You are a shape stuffed with lies and lichen and dripping smiles, a shape that once belonged to my wife,
And she is gone.
And I miss her.
And I hope she would not dismay.
For you are the lie made in her image, you are the creature that stole her long-dead face,
And you are my darling, and you I adore.
I suppose you have grown on me.














