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Specular rain washes the profiles, charcoal and slate. The gardener cuts weeds from ruptures in the sidewalk. Her hair pulled into a mask of determination, in itself insufficient, a woman crosses to avoid the dogs. A gate clanks. Last night, a gathering I thought political was a revival. My angel spoke with the attendant about traffic. So many arrived so quickly. Andante of china and glassware, amplified voices. The denuded avenue buckles. Intermittent clatter, barking that freezes the heart.
Donald Wellman | Mudlark No. 34 |