Rafters
only the finest manila rope, the good stuff you bought at the hardware store on Commercial Road, singing its little dry creak up there in the rafters like a drunk humming off-key. you, dangling in the middle of your one-room shithole, toes pointed south, shame finally heavier than the rest of you. Nina Simone on
The Fairy
she blew in after the lunch bells had faded, Sunday round two in the afternoon, beautiful in that white-brown whirl, dancing and floating between the aisles like some mad angel in the vortex air of the slow train rumbling toward London. suspended there, afloat in the jazz of the rails, she drifted into the baggage