In the slow dying city, the air trembles as
from a severe effort to suppress the darker emotions. I walk, old and troubled,
through streets that are only provisionally there. What strange weather! It’s
becoming common this winter to see a piano burn. A form waiting on my desk at
work asks for the seven last words of our savior. All I can remember is that
the words “mushroom” and “music” are contiguous in most English dictionaries. I
start to think that maybe I should call instead of continue on foot. (“You’ve
reached the voice mail of. . . . Have a blessed day.”) My relatives floated up
from red smokestacks, their faces without shape, their embers without light.
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