I want you with me, and yet you are the end of my privacy. Do you see how these rooms have become public? How we glance to see if-- who? Who did you imagine? Surely we're not here alone, you and I. I've been wandering where the cold tracks of language collapse into cinders, unburnable trash. Beyond that, all I can see is the remote cold of meteors before their avalanches of farewell. If you asked me what words a voice like this one says in parting, I'd say, I'm sweeping an empty factory toward which I feel neither hostility nor nostalgia. I'm just a broom, sweeping.
From The Snow Watcher, published by Ontario Review Press, 1998. Copyright © 1998 by Chase Twichell. All rights reserved. Used with permission.