Out hanging balloons to mark the way, I vary colors, firecracker by
milk, then yellow fire again. At last the night party, no money in that
inkwell, different every yesterday. The picturesque avoided as fenced.
Bridge another arc in dark; cross a real metal bridge. She walks alongside,
before or behind. Sometimes these rushing places. Now she leads.
We grip our bags firmly beside ourselves. Salt air bursts each thought
bubble. Sweeps us into night on the out breath. All roads lie scattered
with alarm clocks’ gutsy guts. Gleam as they bleep. Only one mote counts
at a time. Watching the rushes. Not seeing what is so reassuring, the shh of
rain on skylights. Yet it is still. Come listen. Soft-spoken workers arrive to
sweep the chimney though we haven’t one. Another ant trap will go missing.