he taps keys. he pulls on his hair. he rubs his eyes as the cds clink and change. smoke climbs the shadow made by the sidelong glance of the bathroom light for the bedroom door. a night sound drifts down from above like the whisper of scattered papers. he looks to the window and sighs as if he is blowing candles.

a kiss a thought a dream of secrets and scissors. a drowned sailor's last wish - sliding into darkness within the embrace of his warm bride. what i have for you, my bonnie young lad, is a wound wrapped in clean linen.