It is a painting of a Yeats poem, a canvas of a dark night where, in a star-lit glade, he wishes for the cloth of Heaven. And yes, this cloth are many stars. She, watching the painting, can see them spread before her, but she of the picture does not see these stars and she treads on the starry cloth. His cloth. His dreamed cloth. For he dreams this cloth, and she treads on his dreams and she does not tread lightly but tramples these stars with unseeing feet. His stars, his desire. So the Buddha said. She stands in front of this painting and notices no one or nothing else. It is the most beautiful thing she has ever seen. She sees the pain in the poet’s face. She knows this pain. The pain is as real in his face as in her memory. No matter what the Buddha said. : Five boats set out. Engines can be heard as they leave the dock almost side by side. The sound of engines and the sound of gulls, even some seals farther out. Now the five boats turn into wind slapping sheets to masts. Human shapes, fast now and strong, bring out and hoist sails. A little talking back and forth, he can tell, but not much. Farther out the engines go silent one by one. Of the five boats only four will return, but this he does not know. Instead he wishes he were on one of them, leaving the prison of feet for the water, a more slippery gravity. And he watches as the sailors soon to drown tack again and head for open water. He does not wish himself dead at this moment, but he has, and he will again. One day his wish will be granted. The Buddha said. But he does not listen.