A prose poem.
I dreamed of an ocean, he says to the girl. She is asleep, and the curtains fall around her like the opalescent tresses of the moon. The stage is a concrete slab, cold and unforgiving; it was not the one who lulled her. A poplar presses its secrets against the sky. I can tell you wicked things, he affirms her. The girl’s eyelids flutter to the melody of strings in the absent orchestra pit. She is awake now, and the curtains ascend back to their lofty perch. The man blows a kiss to a passing pheasant; he watches it circle the girl. It is a blurred nimbus of feather and bone. You, angel.