There is a space hidden in a forest to which I go to be alone. It is small, square, Rectangular. In it are moments. Exquisite dreams, at last—ellipses. I take small, even breaths. In the breaths, walden pond. I go to the space lately and soon. I visit with verbal bouquets. Lay them down, petals. I look down, pedals. It was never about getting there, but just that the space exists. And I am, at last, alone.