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Step into a flat space or a thin gown. Chill of satin slip on a shin, 

the successive raising of fine hairs. Your reflection on the dark 

window like the reverse-side of magazine cut-outs. Press the body 

against the glass, look into the house. Hands cup the eyes to see: 

four blue women lined up like a birthday.


Unforeseen, ellipsis of sofa cushions run out & stranded here 

on one small thigh you permit the floor to be just floor again. In a 

far corner she winks behind a tinted lens and bends to pick a sock 

from the rug. You watch and, with some half-formed notion

on the tip of your tongue, call out. But as she turns, you blank and

wriggle from it - hop blushingly towards the hall.


Back to first room

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