I couldn’t stop chasing my tail to the precipice of her spill zone. By the time the bus came, she
was a spitball in the Canadian architecture. I began to descend from word to image, feeling my
need for embraces couple with my legacy of discomfort. My dislike of amphibious laughter
broke me into amphitheater. I came to myself, discarding my one commercial intelligence. It’s
the tip of the finger that does the sensing. If she wasn’t so gooey, I’d love her permanence.
Someone like that—a real life Hollywood movie star!—should break me into my car, restoring
me. Each night I take rubbings of library shag, bleating like a sheep in ecstasy, my neck
embroiled in erroneous fog. As I suspected, the paranoid couple was watching. One fell asleep
before belief, emitting a final, spirited cheer into a voided Doonsbury strip. I do remember
happiness: winged Victory pinned me to her mat. Her wings professionally mounted, her mouth
a downward diagonal.