S a r a h R o s e n t h a l




She is steeped. Even brown water from the faucet holds value as form.


She can still speak of red fingernails, project herself into lives through the reading of biographies.


The self chases its tail, settles down to its four-legged dreams.


A story, she thinks, is just another way to see colors (hear sounds). And so she embraces


the story, down to its crowds, its jostling words.


Through the window, across the street, a curtain, in another, open, window, whips in the wind.


The wind that picks up, signaling dusk.


Whipping curtain a hollow laugh.


All her life. And now she can hear this laugh. Not admonish hollow.


Red. The story a bed, indeed.


These knees press. In. Arthritis. The letters are Greek columns. When she was young, in dramatic black, leaning against them.


When the he or she ­ like a dream ­ biography ­ the self whimpers in its sleep.


Is the self restless.


When the self wakes up she will be kind. To it.


Sweeping her black cape over shoulder step away column, enter room. Look window.


Imperceptible light changes marked by same frame.


Whippoorwill flies across ears.


Swallows of the actual.