She is scared by the long slow dwindling of the heart's manouevres towards the end of the night, or of life.
So she tugs on its clammy fingers tries to get it to waltz again.
I tell her:"Live with me between a name and anonymity." I say nothing.
There's no foyer in a one-room kitchenette, but I stand in the foyer anyways, holding half a poem - or half a person. And tilting at windmills.
She is a page and then some a rough border - shaggy corners. Glue chafing from the binding. And maybe she is older than me.
But nobody ever learned to hunt by watching vegetables being chopped, and we both agree that since we're pledging allegiance, we can put our hands anywhere, right? I just haven't mentioned which country.
The point is this: Tomorrow is a mystery creature,and I refuse to guess whether it wears fur or feathers.