Bosch was forced to make his drawings from our land.
“My tea bag bleeds in the hot water,” he said.
“This is a card playing town,” she replied. The waitress. “People here dress up to go to funerals the way people elsewhere do for the opera.”
Ignorant of its squalid conditions, they’re thankful to leave the hospital alive. They still retain that old belief you go there to die. That there’s no other reason. Yes, die.
We sat at the cafe counter. “Warm your cup?”
Could we trust her?
Wycliffe closed his book. “You can’t sell deodorant to a yogi.”
It was Greek and Hebrew.
“Modern politics is a choice between one detergent and Brand X,” I said.
Not the thing, but the shadow the beasts burden under.
Not perceiving that Bosch, too, labors within multiple mirrors, I quoted Yevtushenko.
“Om gurr, om gurr, om gurr,” the mantra of bus and subway, echoed somewhere in our pasts.
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