It was half past – walking too much – breathing, eating salivating, too little. Lucky enough – coin flip, whistle three quarters past. Half-wandering down the sidewalk humming some hymn song – light. hits the temples. hits the shops with cakes and takes a late lunching. there couldn’t be too little to ground down. Dreaming of fritters with fruit paste and purple flock roe neem pies, but settles for quarter pudding. No bones about her. a strange way to dine. a wall painting of a bark scratched eye. a ragged cloth made ribbon. Nine quarter is too much for that string. A blonde looking child is walking toward a statue. I see through the eye. It’s twisted head imploding into a seam. lucidly willing a fantastical dream. there i can’t drown in the pink spool. pulling into the sky. Antares and Gliese 157 are the blonde twins. Menacing morose they stick a fork in mine. laughter spills in through the sink. draped in cotton dressing. drowning out the suds.

“She always had a knack for hammering small earrings.”

“You know that’s not the truth.”

There was also a quickness about her – I remember it – smelled as trouble does. Sud favorite.

“Whenever I arise my little ghost gloves come and walk under my shoes pollish.”

It wasn’t – talking to much – seething, sheets of rain soaked busk boys. I was lucky enough to know at least one of my little shrimps.

“He always argues with himself about the wimps.”

More portuguiser please. For the children at the wax house never are clean.