Small windows open unto night, lit from behind; a city.
O island city of the sun
O daughter of snow mountain
O coral-tree blossom
O forest of wishing-trees
O refuge from the world
—Eliot Weinberger, “From a Hymn to the Goddess of the Three Cities”
Later, they lie in bed, and face away from each other. A car, there, outside, white and gleaming; illuminated.
To stand by the window, to touch the glass, to draw it out.
She rests her head against the grey pattered wall. Light falls on her dark hair from a single glowing bulb. And them: a white telephone, a black telephone, their coils curled. They come home, alone, to nobody.
A remote control rests, poised, by an empty glass ashtray. And, high on the hill, a pastel motel flickers amongst dark trees. Zaza Bertrand’s Japanese Whispers flutters open on the table. Japanese Whisper floats, back and forth, through the window via angoisse.
More about: Angelo Harmsworth, Theodore Cale Schafer
