Winter song. Fall passing.
And too with so many like this. When she is not there-

   Vibrations after the battle, footsteps breathing deeply into the cotton beds and privy the shrews of their slavery. Heavens' toll after me, brine and abalone shimmering.

Cast in a shadow of half-arched feet, slender narrowness shimmering crystals obfuscate the fury of the ringing;

Every evening when I wake she shakes her bell.

It ripples like food coloring droplets undulating in a dixie cup on the mantel of a kitchen sink. The elbows sprout out first, then the head stridently strikes upwards catapulting the arms and wrists to the sides, and then at last when all is deep ****** blue, the raw hairless legs unmask themselves and fold out into the edge of a postcard and the reddy, cerise snowflake stain brands the juicy signature of an incredible beautifully imprinted star. And still she is not there.

Into the white rooms the insects crawl, at last the cacophony of their bedeviled stridulations eeking as if from a broken and collapsed jaw. A necessary end to every inch of hoarfrost strung across their elliptical hoot-shaped jowls-

These are the marks that time encrusts upon disheveled and dilapidated Spline.

In dark matter there are Spline. In shifty daytime television sitcoms, Spline saw at our ears and cost us trillions of migraines each year. Three Splines sit on a log, another four on a fence. They race each other in elevators, make inappropriate gestures, make airplanes disappear into the Indian ocean, and steal the breath right out of our lungs. Spline cannot come any closer. Spline are the dreary minutia which separate friends, they are the sentence that never makes it off of our tongues, the anger we leave curled into our fists.

She is not here and the fevers are burning. The languages are deafening. It is almost impossible to believe words like these were ever spoken aloud. She is not here and the jeans don't fit, the dogs are shy, and the accidents keep happening. There is never a glimpse at perfect and hot happiness. There is nothing here but the spotty ash-pocked masked faces of the Moon Men, hurrying and scurrying.

She is not here and the sea is drying up. The war is in the street and in the streets the men are dying. Everywhere is dross and cataclysmic end-dust, desiccated hours and dandelion seeds.

Inside of the room the music plays softly. Glass's solo piano Metamorphosis Three and Satie's Gymnopedie. It has been only six hours since she left, but

When we see each other I am superman