poem: ‘muse’

the christmas tree divorced in the window, the ce n'est pas real tree -- she is wearing a red sweater, the thread caughtat the edge of her neck, the cotton peter-pan collar. when she coughs the spit rides up her throat in a divorced ball and he, watching, imagines taking it out, colliding it, marrying…

writing: screenplay #3, “muse”

The window is gothic, church-shaped, above her. She is bending over a wooden desk, working furiously; outside, it is autumn and the light is brilliant and orange. Her hair tucked hurriedly behind her ears, curling out. He comes and stands above her, looking down; there is something unusually serious about him; he is a person…