The Bed at the Far End

The guest ger was warm and gold with lamplight, the stove ticking, the felt walls holding the day's heat, and after the lake and the wind and two bowls of milk tea I did not so much go to bed as get filed there. The far bed, against the lattice, under nothing at all, because the warmth was complete and my resistance was not.

The self-timer was already standing from an earlier attempt at photographing the interior, and it took the room as it truly was at day's end: the table, the beds, the small bare sleeper at the far wall, already elsewhere. I publish it because this archive has always included its keeper, at whatever distance the day left her.