Fragments of blinded cities attached themselves to his good warm coat. The lovers held fingertips & listened to a setting sun set & a rising moon not rise. He pulled back the sheets of the bed & rested with storm clouds gently rocking his dreamlessness.
She drove the car on a salty black road, whose whiteness reminded her of rain. On the back seat her brother laughed, lifting up into the falling storm. A maimed piano began to sing a theoretical popular song.
They were at the beach. She’d left her wristwatch in a city, she slept on.
Fog sleeked the backs of cats, spitting.
The lovers hunched down by a roadside fire. Seashells dripped from my eyes. Der Pomeranzenwälder in Italien.
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