He strokes her side till she motions him to her, but he watches in the shrinking room with its little moon outside, its sleepless owl, its dog that doesn t bark, its pale body of a woman. As though words could carry memories, they delve or climb searching limits eggshells of the old cling to them. Certain syllables asked themselves in deeper, into the pain, when we walked Saturday. I asked myself how to say something without that crunching underfoot. You seemed to be strolling past while I lay on a wall staring into rainclouds.
Question marks flat or sharp.