is an international idea
and a historical fact
and a little piece of our youth
like a stallion which stood about for some years
standing still within those some years
(with muscles and veins full of warm hot blood)
The horoscope writer kills herself on a Tuesday. It is, by coincidence, the day the weekly paper comes out. Townspeople read her column and find it mundane but also uncanny. Here, some of them feel, are words from beyond the veil.
Your husband watches like a phantom through the window, his face silvered in smoke. His eyes, once brimming with affection, have slanted into whispers. You want his puckered face to catch a clod of dirt.