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.

235.

The echo of sound
calling itself a gentle
hued foreshadowing.

234.

Here, between empty
faces, a warning transmits
like a lullaby.

233.

A boy with an old
man's face plays a guitar, while
his twin sister in

opposites, folds her
long fingers across several
open bottle mouths.

232.

On average, they say
that there is a suicide
at Niagara Falls

roughly every two
and a half weeks. So where do
all the graves empty?

231.

Treads their soles on the
scuffed pavement of a distilled
dream. And calls them love.

230.

Now she just steals head-
-stones of ink and marks them as
her heart's epitaphs.

229.

So girl stopped drawing
curved fantasies on her flesh.
Quit believing in

hope drawn carriages
on the carefully etched dawn
of all her spent (k)nights.