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Show XIX. Would you go back to then? she asked, solitary in her most, 0 most casual way, her hair pillowed, askew, her crocus eyes endlessly sad. Mad night. A startled dream had started her, lamplit, exploring times we'd said, whispered: I take you once. And all. Bedded, still, past ten, daylight thickened on the quilt. We smoked, silent. Outside, a summer storm took up the sky, the hillside cows looked stunned. And strained, her voice accrued: For sure, that rain is not for us. XX. The sucking sun draws off the shade, b u t t e r f l i e s sip a cup of dust- noon i s beyond i t s senses. Slaked, our t h i r s t for dogged days, or signs we've grown to each, by slow degrees, while fizzled out our stormy sides. Stale air breathes painfully through the screens like asthma: what does i t want from us? A sort of diffidence to stay- to l i f t a tranquil hand over this, our l i f e , content beyond i t s means: this comes to more than a bad dav. I t ' s here. I suppose we should be glad, in.the end we l o s t . . . I don't know what. |
