Reading to you, I come to the word sacred and there’s a catch in my throat, I come to the word habit and you smile without opening your eyes. I hear myself reading—too grave, I think—and the computer humming on the floor next to my feet. At your feet, 3600 miles away, the dog doesn’t stir.
It’s later there than here, and the poem is a long one. By the time I finish, your face has blurred and frozen on my screen, and I startle when you speak—your mouth hasn’t moved. Your eyes remain shut. It’s as if I’m hearing your thoughts.
That was like an incantation.
Almost like a spell, yes. And by the way, you’re not moving again.
I watch entranced as you switch your camera off and on, and after a few seconds of the slow-spinning O, you’re back, and grinning. I remember that stanza means room. Thanks to the magic of poetry and the internet, you in my box and I in yours can together tour the same, strange castle.