Their life, collapsed like unplayed cards, is carried piecemeal through the snow; Headboard and footboard now, the bed where she has lain desiring him where overhead his sleep will build its canopy to smother her once more; their table, by four elbows worn evening after evening while the wax runs down; mirrors grey with reflecting them, bureaus coffining from the cold things that can shuffle in a drawer, carpets rolled up around those echoes which, shaken out, take wing and breed new altercations, the old silences.
Added: 25 Mar 2002 | Last Read: 12 Sep 2026 2:08 AM | Viewed: 9117 times
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