That was in a room for rent. It had a window and a bed, it was enough for dreaming, for stunning facts like being at last, and undeniably in NYC, enough to hold enfolded as in a pregnancy, those not-yet-painted works to be. They, hanging fire, slow to come—to come out—being deep inside her, oozing metamorphosis in her warm dark, took their time and promised. Fast forward. Trapped in now, she's not all that sure. Compared to what entwined her mind before the test, before the raw achievement pat, secure—oh, such bounty to be lived, yet untasted, undefined—all the rest...
From Coming to That by Dorothea Tanning. Copyright © 2011 by Dorothea Tanning. Used with permission of Graywolf Press. All rights reserved.