Monday, March 14, 2005

letter to a young revolutionary (draft)

Dear L-----

Dusk disarrays the senses.I dream an accumulation of driftwood. I dream a red skirt. The sky ladders itself to my window, and I climb down, using only an elaborate insect manual and a yard of lace. Afterwards, the rain bleaches the houses white as cat bones. There is music enough for a perilous dance, all twirls and innuendoes, but not enough to trap in a bottle. I dream in cursive. The wind leaves no trace along my body.


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