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forth along this snakelike accretion,
“like a couple of wolverines caught in a drainpipe,”
Scrids. Their mother’s word for scraps.
Her face said He does not bore me. Her face said He does not exalt me. Her face said I do not set myself on fire for him, nor he for me (the lie, the lie, the lie).
Something with an endless mottled side, something seen best by cancer patients looking into tumblers from which all the painkiller had been emptied; there will be no more until morning.
It’s very close, honey. I can’t see it, but I hear it taking its meal.
