The rain sends you into Brief Lives of the Brontës
before you touch down . . . without flourish
as if the three sisters stepped out of dissonant voices . . .
Filigreed, of course . . .
homespun . . . without the bullpen of images
by naive writers
from the one-way streets of hometown . . .
Stay the course?. . .
You squeeze into a club . . . with your sister . . .
eyes pocketing change . . .
short stories all . . . as if . . . little matter . . .
With the right mix . . . and nothing unexpected . . .
A minor key to a door etched with algorithmic code
especially now . . . the DJ . . . pumped with smokes from
little-known addresses . . .
A welcome interruption . . .
and more . . . just beyond the breakers . . .
A friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend, yes? . . .
Objection, your Honor . . . the question spun around . . .
reintroduced . . .
There are 50 people . . . and then some . . .
Suddenly, the dialogue (or diatribe) turns weird . . .
you exit with the cast
from West Side Story at Glimmerglass . . .
A parking lot in Garfield . . . rethinking the Chinese menu . . .
the horticultural exactitude of the passing years . . .
amanuenses at your beck-and-call . . .
You are here . . . he knew . . . and you knew he knew . . .
the return trip in the back seat of a Rolls . . .
(Is this on? Please ignore the last line. It's a typo.)
Immersion-A-Plenty . . . and you're down a freebie . . .
