oo1 ❚ THE BROKEN HALF PROMISES
I was the shadow of the waxwing slain by the false azure in the windowpane. I was the smudge of ashen fluff-and I lived on flew on in the reflected sky. And from the inside, too, I’d duplicate myself, my lamp, an apple on a plate. Uncurtaining the night, I’d let dark glass hang all the furniture above the grass, and how delightful when a fall of snow covered my glimpse of lawn and reached up so as to make chair and bed exactly stand upon that snow, out in that crystal land.