She who knows that things are not what they seem,
who says only things that are not,
who says very little

Behold, I tell you a mystery: we will not all sleep, but we shall all be changed
in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet (1 Corinthians 15:51-2)

Telling the story of a moment is something that is impossible fully to do, and nevertheless it is something that must be attempted.

That's it,
it's settled then.
I'll just follow whim.

(risking the bitter end
of a lone bitch at one
with feline kith as kin,

Oh, me.

The boredom. The restlessness. Come down, out of the trees, move your hand across my face, fill my head with details. Then take me with you, interlaced.

She is walking down to the corner of the city. Her eyes follow her green shoes, her head in a blue hood. The air has the sweet taste of coffee and rainy leaves.