"Give me one minute. No, make it two so that they won't be lonely .
Again, I had been working in my own way. In my fever I called for her lips. Her lips, her flesh cool like stone. Sorrow. Why did the ghost of the other hurt her so?
She wanted to lead by example, she kept all her secrets in a cracked blue bowl.
Now we both had something, to be used in different ways. I would have to talk over drinks, I always did.
Now we are here. I talk, but not too much. There is a certain odd comfort in her silent tears. An accusation left unspoken which could prompt action.
Maybe it was just the wind. The night was young.
Votives are lit, a twelve table shrine. In his Indian summer, a saxophonist leans back on his stool. It is all feathers, clouds and smoke. Things of grace.
Can I give you this? Just a mumbled valentine and bouquet of concrete flowers.
It is all past. At least for the day, sundown.
The heat, carrying the scent of concrete and all the days, escapes. It manages to conjure up both promise and regret. Alternating orders in a series of waltz like maneuvers.