She sits there on that high hill just sits there and lets things pass through her until one snags and she fits it into the pattern of this fine mesh of what spirit? But, ah, there’s a cowboy hat and a cherry bomb tattoo and it snags and what she lets through may,
I say, may be caught second time around like that oil pan off an old Hudson or that artificial leg toward morning she’s collected some radio signals from a dead ship and a janitor’s song and some folderol from a church picnic with iced tea fried chicken collards and a whole lot of stentorian god-speak with apple pie and ice cream. I’ll be damned if all those things aren’t moving around in one another’s magnetic fields, some kind of counterpoint that happens each time she breathes it’s a mobile only no wires there’s a piece of mirror turning on a spider web and now she’s a signal beacon says come on up I’ve got something to read and somehow it all works. Then she pulls this silk thread and it becomes a form.