Slowly, perception restacked and reshuffled in bits and pieces, like a tower of Hanoi. Where the crepe myrtles bloom, The smell of smoke rises. It's hot. I'm going to pass out. The lingering scent of linen and cream. The city lights reflected in dark water. The whisper of traffic. With my head full of tv static, I walked alone for twenty minutes across the bridge and caught the train back home. Thinking of how I might be kept as a precious thing, like a bird or a rare moth A being of irrationality, Unwed from material concerns The petals of a pink rosebud unclenching day by day, finally flinging open into a swirling petticoatish (soft tulle)