Deep velvety curtains descend crossing 18th heading west. Enter betrayal. Enter the dark blood scent, bittersweet or cloying depending on whether she’s in her body or his. The men standing outside … Even now he’s gone some long months, the block still throbs. Their shared absence of ease in that space in their chest is still here on this block. [It’s in her head.] The innocent desire for a girl is entombed here.
But, it’s she who’s a ghost. [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.