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you,” and how she bent over to pull those dandelions clotting the edges of his memorial. How the boy watched her figure, her skirt gathered and un-gathered. How the mother watched the boy as he watched. How she said loudly, “I would like to say some words” and she spoke for some while about the unique and heavenly love she shared with this man, how his disability had hindered them, how, “I knew he was frail from the first moment, doubled-over, coughing blood into a silk handkerchief,” and yet they had persevered, how they built their house and bar with planks of wood and bricks, how their hands bled in the fire light, how they cooked fish over open fires and how they made love—how the daughter groaned and the woman raised her hand before lowering finally and continuing, “But Henry, a woman grows old and lonely. Henry, a woman is not a piece of fruit to wither and get eaten by birds. Henry my darling—” and how she could no longer speak, how the sobs rose and welled and overcame her. How she pressed her face into the boy’s chest and sobbed. How her fingernails dug into his shoulders. How the boy gazed beyond the shoulder of the woman, to those trees lingering along the horizon. How their limbs seemed fled of birds and leaves. How your fires and smoke seemed flared anew, and how the boy no longer cared. How all the world seemed silent and immune save this aging woman and her tears soaking his apron.
    How the boy and the girl found two headless lambs in the field behind the town, as if laid out as gifts. How the girl screamed and the boy held her close. How small and taut she seemed, fit within his arms and the taste of her neck, her earlobes. How the boy and girl lay on their backs some distance in the field beyond, in the silence of the other, and how they waited, although the girl did not know until the boy sat up and said, “Look!” and how the eyes, yellow and slit, along the tall grasses of the field.
    How the boy gazed out his window rather than sleep. The expanding street and behind him, the girl on his cot, the blurred curve of her figure, and how she lay covered only in the too thin sheets, translucent with fluids. How she said, “I think I had a brother. I remember a brother. I remember mother saying the name Milt. Mother and how she loved Milt, how we found her sobbing and burning photographs in the bathroom sink.” Later, how the daughter said, “I remember this little boy crying. How he was still alive when they put him in the box. How they wanted to know if it fit and how he begged them not to do it. I remember my mother saying he would be all right, how it was only a game.”
    How these hallways shimmered with the burst of a thousand, thousand sunrises. How we never saw a more beautiful light. How there was no line between the cities of our birth and the dust and embers thereafter .
    Always the husband now, returned, and how Henry leaned on the boy and pressed against the boy, smelling of leather and dust. How Henry smoked cigarettes in a chair, butts smoldering through the shag carpet. Always the husband now and how his eyes were all but devoured by beetles and worms and the conditions of time. Always the husband and how he moved his mouth to speak and how only a humming sounded. This husband now and how his lips become sodden and glistening at his daughter sunbathing on the lawn. How he lay alongside his daughter and how she had grown these years, how he fondled her hair, kissed at her neck. How the boy watched, his face red and numb. This husband now and how he smashed all the portraits hanging from his wife’s walls, how he spat dust into the food and urinated ash into the soup. This husband and how he sat at the foot of his wife’s bed while she masturbated and moaned the name of the boy. Always this husband from doorways and shadows, always this husband, speaking the language of humming and dust, and how his widow answered him by