Faded Houses Green

The chastised watermark bled through the tumblers of the safe like a half-fanatic willow tree in bloom.

Justine could not hold back the demons and the dainties that had pent up their frustrations in her these last lonely livid years. Gone were the battlements; gone were the trapeze artists; here to stay were the new words and the tender buttons of marinated mushrooms au gratin. The grated goose liver struck him on the pate (whether rhyming with late or latte) like alas poor Yorick whether you knew him well or not. Three dozen souls of dead boxelder bugs were enough to waken the living dead on this or that side of the bourne from whom Cordelia heaves her beating heart. But Justine lies there, stricken with the flimsy pallor of unholy valor against the throngs of one too many go-to-sleeps.

Cordelia and Antigone invited Justine to join them in their eternal grief, but Justine said I have no standing here: my father and brothers died peacefully in their sleeps. Cordelia said yeah that’s what they all say. Antigone’s laughter resounds today across the horns of the cosmic background radiation.

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