It is a small street. The second time I have been fumbling for the house number, remembering to feed the parking meter. This exile.
From heat and brown people.
She is ok opening the door though, a segment of the opaque mosaic.
Assessment am I to understand is to comply with a mixture of relief and reticence.
The cramped room. Two chairs, one more comfortable, the other buttressed by a weathered desk. Tissues on the stool next to where I sit.
“May I have your address”?, she had said the first time, Biro hovering above a newsagent’s pad.
A little later; “I invoice you monthly.”
A patina of culture and, I unkindly thought, the grave lilt of her voice counterfeit experience.
But this time it is not that. The sea and the sky rather. An archipelago of loss riven by fjords of ice.
© Icarus. All rights reserved by the author.

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May 25, 2007, 15:12
Only two choices here for me:
Either I need more words, or I am not worthy. I am willing to believe I am not worthy--but it would have been more fun to have had more words.