Her face beneath the glass coffee table. A marble ornament, a plated face. Weigh heavy a little longer, allow me to look for reasons in the dialogue between you and that fellow. Surely you could have had a long life, borne twelve children to a man who had no neuroses. I see myself in you when sleep doesn't come and dawn brings its blue dysphoria. Then bone cries out for bone, muscle for muscle. That's the secret of revenge— if not gotten to in a timely fashion the suicide works itself into soft tissue, and youth cries out for the brass kettle, the useless stove gone cold in winter, the clock s