It is always loud on the corridor. The world outside can only conveys a necessity
For calmness and concentration, or breeze-like domesticity.
At the threshold, I see two soles on the arm of a couch. You lie supine on him.
I see a Renaissance pouch at his crotch under your splayed legs.
I say: Don’t move! The wind is coming.
The wind squeezes in through the window, but the wall is hard and slippery.
No matter how it tries to suck, the wind cannot hold up.
It falls down to the foot of the wall, and regaining its foot, it finds no one around.
So it drifts away, crestfallen and piqued.
I follow two steps, hesitate for three seconds, and halt myself before two pairs of eyes.
Then I turn around, bolt upright, hands against legs, and fall back through your body into his.
Below the eaves, the clouds are running horses along the edge of the sky.
You sneak a tap at the pouch, cover it with your palm, and smile a cunning smile.
You ask: are you here all this while or just back?
September 23, 2008