But a Storm is Blowing From Paradise

Satori

89 Satori What the body does not know it just invents: a girl bucking herself to sleep on the back of her hand. Or the sound of a chair creaking is the sound of a man having a heart attack in the lobby. On some airplane an ink pen leaks on pants pressed in a suitcase. A woman shifts her leaky blood into the twice circulated air. In the poorest county behind a house on palettes our piebald dog wails at the line of junipers rushing at him, and the valley pulls its long arm down 90 on the prickle of starlight. The man and his architecture grasp for semblance of rhythm: a balcony's pendular love, the triple-eight knots of a torn bedsheet. Someone should call his wife made a pale deer by downshifting night. Made a pale window facing the pond made rain choking on glass. ...