Deep velvet curtains descend crossing 18th heading west. The drama of betrayal with no beginning or end. She’d look for The men standing outside so she could populate her storm with real people. Even now that he’s been gone some long months, the block still throbs in her imagination.
[The heavy curtain, the tomb can’t keep her out; it never could.] There are things that go bump in the night that live on this block and much more largely than she. She who tore through the earth. She who rips stars in the sky. Here she’s no substance at all; all but disappeared. She’s light as a feather, at the whim of the wind, emanating no light. She drives through and soon early evening’s spring rays [she’s irrationally sure they come from the river and not from the sky] beckon and chase her back into form, into substance, into matter. She’ll hold onto that.