Tuesday, May 1, 2007
I’ve met a lady’s stocking. It is black like the heavens above the earth. It wished to take me dancing, but I suggested coyly that we ought to pray instead. Inside there was a spider, a little brown one. It knew my name before I spoke. Also inside: a blues singer, and a man on a tightrope. There was a small sunset in the distance. Smoke forked up from a chimney here and there. There was also a tiny mirror, so miniscule you had to bend in real close. This made the stocking cry rape! rape! and I laughed a little, and my little self, after some delay where I appeared to be thinking, laughed back.