the mist on an ancient village

we left and began walking, talking. she moved with long cool strides, her dress swooshing, and when she arrived on the corner, looked up to face the moon, like, as I say, a buddhist priestess charting heavens high oriels.

we walked to her apartment, past the improv studio, the pear tree, the rich mud on the side of the street. when we arrived I looked into the jazz and brunch joint below her flat. the seraphin moon brought out every, ah, every curious fingerprint on the glazed glass façade.

“an airplane headed to iceland,” she said, staring up at her private night.

“that sounds like a fine trip.” i said.

"i’d love to…”

“mmhmm.”

her apartment gave the sensation of a caravaggio, like colorful but dead leaves purloined in a puddle reflecting the nether sky.

"south of the border, west of the sun" sat impatiently on her coffee table next to the jenga box. her piano, on her piano, was a very dead wreath. we both took a seat on the bench in front of the coffee table and she started to roll a joint. we smoked as i arranged the jenga blocks.

i spotted a vintage photograph of a handsome lady in a gray, finely tailored suit and a gentleman with a pale chrysanthemum in the buttonhole of his cutaway coat. it bored into my tea-infused mind, through the portabello french doors, around the corner and into the subway to the coldwater flat at west 23^rd street, lower east side where a man in a derby hat, leather vest with no shirt and pencil pants opens the door holding mayan codices in one hand and a pot of boiled birdseed to roll and smoke in the other.

“if our bed hadn’t creaked with gentle rhythms…” the man with the chrysanthemum said.

“edgar. he doesn’t want to hear about our relations.” the woman said.

“our relations. say it again. it sounds lovely.”

the woman frowned, her tresses drooping abe darbys.

“if you’ll excuse me.” the man in the derby hat said.

“your turn,” she said, as she gently placed the block on my finger.