she stood lazily in the shower, watching the drain grow
fat with the leftover dreams
that come off her like dead skin. she and her friends will go out
tomorrow, and make castles out of shotglasses
and then knock them over.
when she was younger she walked through fields in a red raincoat
amazed at the way things brushed against
her bare legs. wet grass is something else, really. it feels like
feathers; do you remember?
if she turns the shower off, she will be cold. there is no one to yell at
to bring her a towel. even rudeness can make strangers out of
friends, but she is
starting with nothing; so why does it matter?
the last pavilion 