It is a pity there is also the nature of the surface of the skin—combined with the error of her eyes and the divots at the centers of her breasts.
Her tiny skirt is much like a figure skater’s skirt that may—as she lets her legs fling forward to walk—flap.
Clap. Clap.
The girl—to get here—goes in the direction of the vanishing point, on up the steep grade.
These living quarters with the man, that she has entered, are bordered in the front by bluet and merrybells and by the myrtle and foam flowers at the back.
Her exit requires her to go through a door that shuts, ta-ta!—with those two little beats of sound.
Come along!—for wonderful it may seem that those hills are presenting themselves not just as technical details or as small regions near the tollway.
Did she see those birds that were falling like leaves?—the leaves that were flying like birds?
The girl will extend herself to travel and to sway beyond the sweepgate into somebody else’s household and she will hurry to meet up with somebody.
So when she arrives at the northern suburb, she finds a high house with a heavy gate. There is a seat near the door.
Whose house is this?
There is a tent bed, a hearth, and a sectional bookcase.
“At least I don’t keep people waiting. Am I doing everything?” the girl asks.
“Hey!”
“Now look at you.”
Then she was pulling her blouse together and she went to get a glass of water, a pot of coffee.
The brightly scaled moon was rising, but this girl never became a well-liked businesswoman with a growing family in the community.
Neither is she endowed with any remarkable qualities. We never spoke of her specialized skills or of her inclination to be otherwise. My fault. Go fuck herself.
Apology accepted.