Sunday, May 18, 2008

Blear, Tall Couch

The couch was in the middle of the room and I walked between the back rest and the bottom of a yellow painting on the wall. The couch was not as nice as it was last night. The couch is draped on the rug. Leonora Carrington circled the area, creeping, and she bumped into it. The felt-wrapped mouse, fattened with catnip trapped inside, entered through the iron gate of my jaws. The couch is gone forever. Its spirit passed through the body of the cat in the window across the street. I sat on the arm of the couch looking for the entrance to the baker's pit. The couch was mounted on a stone pillar rising from stone steps. The couch strides along the rug, passing over the Wastebasket Enemy Combatant. It's a bleeding yew, stooped and tender. The couch whistled, hidden from view by an old stone wall facing Greenview Avenue. I rubbed my cheek against its fat knees. The couch was a little glass of sparrows preoccupied with their cadences and swatted from the sky. The couch could not answer to its own name.

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