242.

Then her husband sits
up, as if in collusion,
and reaches for the

bottles. While on she
walks, room to room, one ever
moving, slow, circle.

241.

Across the ocean,
from a dream, a guitar plucks
and a wife wakes up

from her Tokyo bed.
Silently, a mime out of
dream's surreality.

240.

While with each flick of
chord, the wires become further
stretched out behind the

priest's neck. Like vicious
intention. Or perhaps a
strangling in shadow.

239.

Through the door comes the
sister, lit up to reveal
her grown now to his

own size, fitting the
guitar as bone's extension
filled out to hands now.

238.

Then echoed out by
the flicker of candles held
for prayers beyond.

237.

Long since out of tune,
the thumps of each press transmit
a beat's intention.

236.

Next the Father tries
to emulate their sound through
the irony of

the church piano,
trapped and muffled by distance,
from the room next door.