People study the dingy chenille clouds for a sign.
People did what they have done.
A town, a time, and a woman who lived there.
And left undone what they ought not to have did.
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Night: wears itself away clouds too dense to skim over the shear granite rim only a moment before someone sitting in a mission chair convinced 101% convinced she could see into her very cells with her unassisted eyes even into extremophiles even with the light dispelled until the mind sets sail into its private interval of oblivion a hand falls from its lap a pen drops to a carpet a stand of leaves whispers as if to suggest something tender yet potentially heart robbing Sequel: to a dream in which faces flare up fuse dissolve but there is a lot of color before their vanishing and a name for such phenomena that comes from the belly of a lamb rather not a lamb anymore from the stomach of a particular canny but kind and blind-from-birth ewe for Susie Schlesinger