Betty burned the house down later.
Before that, there was everything.
Each day thinking maybe not,
before the dreaming came.
The script was unclear on several points.
Shuttered rooms. Always dusk,
clouds almost amber.
Wolf at the edge of the clearing,
a flash, then gone.
Not much point in laying it out–
it always looks the way it looked before:
the day filtered down into
something that glimmers and sways.
Distant persistent tapping or
frenzied violin.
Of the things that must be counted mercy,
forgetfulness was one.


. . .

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