Someone nodding, and the light pressing down as though it had weight. And right in the middle of what I want to say there’s a long row of chairs. There are green, red, yellow arches that gradually contract and close, like doors. Like a disease whose threshold no one can cross, she says.
Once upon a time, there was only Olga and me, as well as our old dog, Boji, in a big house we inherited from our parents, whose food we had slowly been poisoning in a span of at least a year. Our parents blamed their “chronic illness” on inclement weather, on the “heathens” who played rock music next door, sometimes on “cursed” and “possessed” appliances and furniture.
birds, vital furniture for our eyes. The floor refoliates a dozenfold. Months these days waltz triple-time within us. Echoes of fundamental shapes. Great-
grandfather, Harry Houdini’s accountant. Isaac, our cousin the Don, muscled his way into King’s spitting distance. All told, say the performance outlived the performer? O