she felt that anything that happened; that had happened
past highschool — was not
real — she had three dollars and 81 in the account; she kept her
hair in a white ribbon in a
queue; she romanticized the vomit on her bathroom floor
like she romanticized her cafe-haunts and the black
coffee, Listz at breakfast and during poetry
readings and at nightly
purges — listz listz listz to the white rasping
of the wind,
Henri comes up the sidewalk, his hands inside his
oxford-style-pockets and his head bowed; he is an intellectual so
he is a god. for him,
there is only Lorde and Hozier and Vivaldi and the men
he has not yet killed, potential possible murders roosting
inside him like birds. he has contemplated killing
since highschool, when the three-hundred and
something students turned on him — and he vowed revenege
and instead went to college,
he sees Angelika waiting and is ready
to suck her dry, her black hair spread like mold
on his bathroom floor and the gasping gasping
of sex, climaxing, orgasming — he puts on
some indiscriminate music; she looks at him and sees
her father; he has her spit
in his mouth — the taste is nice and dark, like
the shaking autumn night or their starting: how do
they know each other? and why? and for
what purpose?
it’s simple, almost
bestial: she waits on the sidewalk
because she is a woman and she
waits. he comes up because he is a man
and he comes.
the last pavilion 