Let's go down again in the lap of moonlight. Perhaps it was a river. Angeline, you were just thirteen and wide awake. It was summer, and themen were drinking, Sandy dipped at the Pablum, folds of her silk shirt razors. Let's go to the lake's shore in memory.
Somebody's pressing the hard wood at the door's frame in reverie, that's all.
Sun rosy in the bay's waters now, low tide after storm. But that was an hour ago, the bague message always in the passage. Perhaps it was a river, discordant melody of a figure risen up on flood, rot wood turned by shadow to a body imagined there in sleeping. Margar t's feet in phosphorus at the shore, standing over the body-bag. Squawks of aggression and hunger, a gull, on a post, at the pier later.