The thrill seeps out generally, slowly, peppering the soil with shards of sprig-white to decorate the meaningless barge that with rust has become ornamental among the other goods, a vacancy for ferns. It gives off the ooze of an unrepresented wish, that in this nest where the push of rampant play and experimental kindness circle their wettened pole a ball of darkness has been brightened with the dross of their bodies: the molting accelerated by heat, the hair plucked from vagrant floating in raptured undescribed air. From it, arise intention and painstaking attention, and where this hand curled evaporating in the sleeper's lap it opens the purse. Bind her to your friends; enjoin her to select from what's hanging still on the trestles, rejecting the gum- swallowing flaws that would lace the trestles of the ribs and work the correct. From these tanks of plenty, beautified stainless by disappointment or love's marked decline, before the cunt's withering or your torpid blood, find file and make ready: the mark of hope could be its ugliness, the misapprehension of needful change before lines of blood fall lowering us, drawing us by pumps into shallower lanes and letting the cruise disappear. From this wonder and maiden amity buckle them to us, or torpor in the common chance. Pick this up; convey our thanks.
Andrea Brady Index