#35

The last gray brow rescinded, and Sophie sat down to wait. Green grass from its slivers of concrete, brown. While the flys buzzed round dingy receptacles. "All the literati keep . . ." And then discard. My lover's favorite: a condom like a lurid slough, and sloughed again. None of that for Sophie. Let every cause an effect; every telegraph a slow response. She had ribbons of lavender in her hair. And liked it, when she liked it, to frown.

The afternoon was her domain, but often trespassed upon. There was cinescope and lithographs and maundering crowds of men. Each line was a line left stranded. Outside the lending place, so much reserve in standing. And total views. Kinship cisterns. Micah's dick like a battering ram. Oh, Sophie's door would open - but she was never, God knows!, at home. She sat like a grimacing Romeo and tightened her rollerskate laces, and spat at all who passed her - "In vielen Worten wenige Klarheit" - and waited, from the curb, for things to move.