Mesmer's Insomnia   In our afternoon sessions, lockets of magnetic light blur the spines of firs in the private holiday of her induced sleep; childish, her eyes widen, devoted to a glair of inward, fabled knowledge I choreograph, and keep secret. At night, in the desolate hair shirt of her absence, I own the lodestone of her wild weeping: it bespeaks the potent silence of her cloistered tongue-- a zone I cannot enter but whose passion I reap, lured like nocturnal geese honing off over the Danube, restlessly obedient to laws chauvinistic and infidel--and deepening.