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1.
She said
she liked the idea of him having other women.
What she
meant was that the rain poured straight down
out the window and on the television screen.
One moment
the panorama is decisively equatorial, and
then it is a field of glass.
2.
A limousine
argues the value of interiors, discreet
affairs. Meanwhile, beneath oil and steel, the liquid
streets seethe in clairvoyance. They desire her
shoulders, the hem of her dress. She pulls her hat
down. A rickshaw is quite a different ride, but you
can’t expect to remain immaculate in these elements.
We will
discover her later, in a colloquium:
Figure
No. 3: Tragedy of Impulse
3.
Afternoon.
All light is diffused through the textiles
of privacy. Or filtered through gray. A gray season.
Naked, the body crosses a gray room, pours water over
a gray plant.
I was
enthralled, then bothered by the way she held
onto me, her hands seeking out my warmest surfaces,
the fragrance of her hair as always. I can’t be more
specific just now, so I leave the flat despite the
weather, only to return by dusk to wash away
everything, to lean over the basin and let the city
slide down my chest.
4.
The boat
is no longer moored. She mouths the word
deliberate. They watch each other as space expands,
and each might watch until the other becomes
invisible, or until something larger stands in the
way, if there is a difference.
I wait
for the void to be filled by static.
To fill
itself full of static.
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