| High Not home at all. Certainly not fraud. Just aware of the visit -- talent to muscle. This point, a gate. And then, a rush of high -- high torn towers, sharp, and diminishing. And where it can, delight offers its own. The woman agreed to this illness -- one spark of germ for the brain, the scarlet school -- of the cure she will tarry, the aspects of red medulla dictating sound, reflect, injected day after day, 2 grams of rabid animal brain attacking how her blood works. Cut. All. The bench. Cold stones to side path, Soon the living, the swollen town. And out From the bedroom, from the nest of string and sirens, into that town, the alleged hate. Later, She gathers her clothes, little basket for biscuits and plums. Bases herself on the road repairs. Already the gimmicks are working, scratching: all across the room, suspended from threads and cotton � dropped smiles, the Thompson drying metal weight, row after row, tiny nerve hooks for hearing, the grid of the muscle, used now for madness turns back on itself -- 10 days, the job. Like glass hearts, a dealer says. she thinks, takes the injection, quickly and fully, as she takes the grief, the little fear, the majority of human wonder. Perhaps for years you did -- another dealer says. For this stage, the lost animal sounds. Go to sleep, he says. She does not, of course. |