a single mosquito swarms, beyond the window it rains; today resembles a crazed young lady. weeping and spinning her skirts,
drenched by the confounding sky, anticipating thunder, lightning, garnets---
her body aches for a hot bath, she bleeds for a distant dream and wraps herself in silken things that feel to her like wings.
think of me, think of kissing me, she said. we are still the age of the enchanted. it is the may of our days.