Caterpillar 6

it was not until I met you that the door broke down —or I opened it— and my innocence was consumed, burned away. You, who are listening to me now, some walk leaving your prints in snow, or soot from burning buildings, some in jade from the stylized places you travel, or ink that you’ve spilled in keeping accounts, you know, I cannot doubt, how indefinable the borders of countries are, how easy to walk and find yourself having been in two countries or two states, sometimes one foot in one the other foot in another. You know how the worst ravages of childhood in some ways never touch you, while a feather or a leaf falling by chance as you walk on the street at a later time, may bruise you break your arm or destroy your life. When we are innocent, we know nothing about innocence, like everything the hard way. And it protects us. It seemed as if I has been through all the possible terrors; and meeting this one man would relieve them all. But that leaf, that feather, something must have pushed down my door. No longer did the crystal pane surround me. No anger could it protect me. No longer could I walk in those same impossible places without realizing their danger. And that is the secret —if the word could be used to mean reason formula explanation of why I can’t have you in my life anymore,