There is a white powder on the lips. Winged ants cloud the fronds. X and K. Anchor. Pale ponds of the estate. One town like another.
Someone moves in the kitchen.
Someone moves near you. Above you always is the coiling blue. It is evidence of you and precedes your arrival. You move in a cloud of motes, force travelling from the shock of every step to the cushion between the spine and skull. You could be a mother in a yellow house by a stream.