in all her dark and light
so much darkness bounds
the only light near enough to see by
another is distant
a face all but imaginary
a pretty face is all I know I know
at the end of knowledge that never was
hope survives its wreck again
she might be perfect
and then there is perfection
faceless
still pretty
neither distant nor close in time or space
but dimensionless
unyielding for direction
neither dark nor light
but sightless, yielding
not even ignorance to toss blindly in
not even darkness to stumble through
nor so much as a word beyond
the words--the fairytales--
that give her all her form
