S.B.T. 350

long purple shadows cast by boulders. a silver flute plays chopin inside the top of my head which is a cave, there in the distance, with bats ratcheting. deep red velvet pain, the color is like blood, but at least it is alive, it is red. this fabric, so luminous, alluring, is untouchable. it is draped in a room painted by vermeer, carefully crumpled into a circle by little feet of cats, arranged in a brass ring basket, shaped like a crown, plumped with goose feathers. and the room is in some castle in the clouds.  only the delft geographer could imagine what all these things are for. for susan where you once were, is no more, unsettled scattered across the landscape of a hollow place where a friend is laid to rest.