Prologue Poem by Tony Towle

Only one at a time of mourning,
in which the edge of the hill
is going down
and I was close to loving you for it.

So this is a tale, then; good.
The forest is important,
the boar hunt,
and the close of the legend,

when by turns the leaves would arrive
with the next nice October
and the king was away from our throats.

Good. But not only that; later,
when the edge was folding
and we were not discussed,
more at the disposal
of Madame de Sévigné,

on the way to exorcism,
on the platform;
I might have wished
that you were not the subject,
maimed and partly displayed.

The pilgrims are cautious and exact
and only a trickle comes to the edge.
I stir slightly.
The residue, white, is hung
without sound.