I finally ask the question and the affair ends. Earlier he waited at the station, looking at Venus travel and vanish. The bare sky a glass he puts thoughts in. A land he’s come to through difficulty. It wasn’t only difficulty that made him ask the question that loved him to the land. A gesture knew him to me early, then he showed how he bears through sandstone, kingfishers, looking at the white-cheeked duck, looking up the Southern Cross, the difficulty of giving shape to clay or form to bare sound – of making sadness a question you answer. I wanted to land next to him in the circle he made, too early hot and close – when days earlier I shrank from his delighted look. One of the nights, after sex, I landed with Virginia’s sky opening inside me. Difficult to tell him that sky too soon, the question in the silence after. By morning: If you like my bare skin, you should see my wolfskin, and my bare laughter rose from the bed so early there was no light and nothing to question. That night, he closed the no around him. Looked at me clear, then into his own difficulty, traveling toward him, landward. I wanted a person to marry me to the land. Turned instead to the floating I bear, ignorant of how to settle, the difficult fracture into three cities. Venus comes early but I can’t remember where, or look without the intervening question. A question of years: if the view stales early, if I grow tired of looking – I want to bear it, to land. To house myself in the difficulty.