As I wrote that day, it began to snow.
Like a Victorian journal entry, perhaps a promising scientist
in his neat hand: but Andromeda
Or perhaps, Aurora’s condition troubles me

I guess she has lashings of curls, Andromeda Parry.
Her lips are lusciously full, but her pallor is more
than simply fashionable. She is soon to be married,
but dreams in carnal, slaughterhouse reds
of torn bridal gowns and of ravishing creatures
with the forms of men but the teeth of beasts
and with eyes haunted by a long, inhuman hunger…
She is scared of these dreams inside her,
and her case begins to disturb
our earnest and baffled young man…

I suppose there’s a kind of comicbook lucidity
to most notions of sensation or of human sentience.
The WHAM of self, the KERPOW of presence
and absence. It’s still snowing, even now, as I write:
but now, it has stopped.

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