Forgive me for thinking I sawthe irregular postage stamp of death;a black moth the size of my leftthumbnail is all I've trapped in the damask.There is no need for alarm.Andthere is no need for sadness, ifthe rain at the window now reminds youof nothing; not even of thatparlor, long like a nave, where cloud-shadow,wing-shadow, where father-shadowcontinually confused the light.In flight,leaf-throng and, later, soldiers andflags deepened those windows to submarine.But you don't remember, I know,so I won't mention that house where Chung hid,Lin wizened, you languished, and Ming-Ming hush-hushed us with small song.And since youdon't recall the missionarybells chiming the hour, or those words whose soundsalone exhaust the heart--