‘The band really cut loose for this one’
The dark very slowly leaves the room the way the details of the day before disaccumulate, or the way blood withdraws from the various tips of a cooling body, or the way the house empties as the party wears on into morning.
The air is like somebody waiting at a station with a briefcase larger than they are.
The singing bird is a needle and thread, stitching at the ear’s various folds.
In the earth beneath the bed, clay is sweating, coal is splintering, water is cavilling. Every bed is a desert dune, high as a wall.