- Vol. 05
- Chapter 09
Listening to Handel, I hear nothing of liquid: no sea lines up against my ear,
no river washes through this hour. only catching echoes of helicopters and police sirens;
shores full of air raids landing with the tide, a houseguest uninvited, whose calling card
explodes through your letterbox then expects you to make room at the table for their elbows, aflame.