The first piece of furniture to open at my command was the commode. I had only to tug on the button and the door would snap towards me out of its lock. Stored in the back among the shirts, shirtfronts, and underwear was what made the commode an adventure. It was necessary for me to clear a path to its uttermost corner; then I would come upon my heaped up stockings, rolled and turned inside out in the traditional fashion. Each pair had the look of a little pocket. And nothing gave me greater pleasure than to burrow my hand as deeply within them as I could. This I did not for the sake of their warmth. Rather, it was the “treat” that I always held in my fist inside the rolled-up interior which drew me into their depths. After I had it clasped in my fist and was as sure of the soft wooly mass as possible, the second part of the game began, bringing with it revelation. For I would proceed with the task of extricating the “treat” from its woolen pocket. Pulling it ever nearer to me, the astounding thing came to pass: I had drawn out the “treat,” but the “pocket” in which it had lain was no longer there. Never did I tire of putting this to the test. It taught me that form and content, veil and what is veiled, are one and the same. It taught me to extract the truth from a poem as warily as the child’s hand had drawn out the stocking from the “pocket.”
