the new home of @bookmark_terry
After the brief bivouac of Sunday, their eyes, in the forced march of Monday to Saturday, hoist the white flag, flutter in the snow-storm of paper, haul it down and crack in the mid-sun of temper. In the pause between the first draft and the carbon they glimpse the smooth hours when they were children– the ride in the ice-cart, the ice-man’s name, the end…
Through sepia air the boarders come and go, impersonal as trains. Pass silently the craving silence swallowing her speech; click doors like shutters on her camera eye. Because of her their lives become exact: their entrances and exits are designed; phone calls are cryptic. Oh, her ticklish ears advance and fall back stunned. Nothing is unprepared. They hold the walls about them as…