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| I He rode by, rode on the pillion, a helicopter in his hands. He whirred a song in his throat. They stopped at a yellow traffic light, where he, whirring a polite cough, stepped into my parlor. II I paint my fence frowning orange. III Trees grin green at windletters he's sent me posting puffs of rufous smoke. IV There was a red ladder I couldn't climb. The fall was swift. V I tore at his helicopter till it bled, till it rained in my room and I could sit spreading my limbs to cover the red. VI They knock on the door every time I twitch a toe. Days pass by. VII I grew bines to smear the purple unguent of forgetting on my lids. Sleep collected around me.
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