The heft ends in a humid click. We are now compressed according to what everybody already knows about an accordion. Talcum in the folds, hiss crowded to fading. It cannot persist and so will end outside.
We were up all night in the bellows with the bellhop, husking lemons and catching ice. The folds sing. This is where we will look.
The sheer size of it partitioned the hug and set the heel of the answer. The sparkle delayed the thud. We knew our water was undrinkable and all we had.
We will not, without air, get high enough to pierce this.
We are hunters, squeezing out a script. The mumbling is ten feet tall. I canít see you. There is a truck slapping plates. Your words are silver and creeped. I donít feel bad that I canít hear you. When we get out, we get out.
The heft rounds itself up.Posted by Sasha at December 20, 2003 02:45 PM | TrackBack