The jigsaw voice cut like sharp reeds in the head.
Vicerating a night fantasy;
pursuit rich in social folly and imprudence.
Awakened by the curdling howl of child boy.
Ruffled hair and spongy eyes of child girl resettles my countenance.
The dining room Persian rug is the key to our lives.
It mimes the story of fire roasted reds and psychic dusk blues.
The rugs frayed sides and fading strands are the the tin cries.
Its corners are you and I.
Masters of the Manor with our arms interlocked in embrace or sparring.
An auspicious waft of chimney smoke travels like heaven to the window.
The sky is white like an aspen tree.
Some matter travels up like the smoke while others fall down
like the aging leaves of October.
Now the others have arisen.
Barking! Over food, over sounds, over space, over the way they look at eachother and what remains below is the way they didn't choose to look at eachother.
Let's come back into the privacy.
Shut the door.
The Hermit strums strings
fun coiled wire brustling furious.
Brewing up songs of chaos and benevolence behind closed doors.
Then takes a walk in the rain for separation from the cat
whose smug chin turns up quickly and then
side to side
after she has snickered at you with her eyes.
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