Goodnight a hung sarong, which has punched a long path through fifty French doors. A sarong grown humid, with what might move underneath, and might flick the pulse up—what only just registered in a folded swundle of cloth. What might breathe, though lungless, and beat, though heartless, what might bear the garment on; what but a threefold walk of first leg, and second leg, and gap-mouthed satchel hung between. Mischief made new, shown through French doors, the balconied...taking in the joy of the courtyards. Fifty French doors traversed; a scent for the ‘neath, a scent rued far from the stopper. A joy not tweezed from one thing, but sought in the gaps between. Mischief which spends and thinks not a thought—the joy of the courtyards, the flors grown hot.
-2001
