scavenger bride, she counted periods before the children came along, but never suspected eyes like bottles beginning to blue, a tangle of scars hermetically sealed, the new order of a broken romance, dead love cassettes in the glove compartment,
her cold and empty constellations, like cold breath passing through a beam of sunlight, grid of points, pendulums, the ratio of freckles to stars, no subtle countenance, martinis and bikinis, soft ******* and ice cream, slight, elusive things, on a beach with no more meaning,
the repeating pattern of her mistakes and reliefs, a preservation of decay, sustained by the tiny human fault line in that oneiric hinterland, between dreaming and waking,
she draws around the noise and the clearings, she creates within that sightline the way her sadness can feel comfortable, an extension of loss that turns her ruins into a home.