The wind gave her a shove and her hair was like a layer of seaweed, watered with a pinkish lustre. How awful it is when everything functions according to repetition, the blue landscape concealed.
Society, renowned for secret conversation, held a short meeting and tarred her. Nothing was left and the bed was empty. The room more or less forgot about her. Her sky was occupied by a vague threat, an absent-minded guest.
The sky was as long as a blade of grass. Her feet had grown smaller. She was careful not to frighten the quiet whisper—a secret sound.
Her head floated away. It just happened. The tide sang farther and farther away. A taut white rib in spirited curve became a very ancient mountain.
The scolders, their chidding chatter had the dramatic capacity to shift the weather, and renewal walked on stiff legs. I was a tangle of seaweed and steel frame, and beyond the rim of ice an old crow scolded all night.
The guest dragged the bed to the chopping block. In the dead-calm night it was clearly audible.