The Somnambule's Crime
Honeymoon
Kitchenette
One afternoon there was a sodden movement of the black cypressettes along a road haunted by mossy female voices so I closed the door on a fringe of pink wool and sat in the frosted chair to read an Arbor Day manual. There were many miles to go. Meanwhile the leaves are composed so as to fall into a cage in the drawer in the envelope containing pieces of that road where a woman had once tumbled her mouth a red circle or an enameled wristwatch that had rolled away under the trees. Also…lightning’s infirm sunlight (intuitively hair) coughed an albino rose and a roughly beveled star into an flaming mass. 1… 2… 3… 5… 4… A mile away in the kitchenette a moustache of thunder crawled onto my lip.