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.