From The Cineaste
A place, though visible, is like a ghost
of memories. Even memories one forgets
linger in the space in which they occurred.
Here within the expanse of vaulted ceilings,
doorways leading to more doors, hallways
leading to more halls, the faintest recollections
absorb over time; no act will wholly evanesce.
Wander over the carpets and marble floors,
and the echoes of bygone eras endure,
wafting through corridors
like a perfume pulsing on a woman’s neck.
What should one make of what happens
or doesn’t through a night between lovers?
And if the space awakens in a man or a woman
some thing they would not find the inner charge
to commit in their own bedroom,
should they forget? Embrace this longing?
This couple, let’s say, met last summer at a château
soiree, and they made love or they thought