Very good. I really like it.
At Night At night, when we're sleeping, all the clothes come out and assume our shapes. They love this, treasure their freedom. Sometimes there is traffic from house to house, and always rising sounds. The tinkle of ice, a curious music from somewhere, and the scrape of forks on plates. Dancing, too, after dinner. Then, suddenly, the music dies, all the dishes direct themselves to suds and fly mute into cupboards which close themselves. And the clothes themselves? Surely you've sensed them slipping back onto their hangers reluctantly, yet also lonely for the light, and for sweat and the motion of real hips. |
Comments 1 to 4 of 4
|
Comments 1 to 4 of 4
|