Supervoluminous

Naked as a map on the bed, above covers, she paused for a thought and while doing
scratched her cooch with an emory board. He had been out of the room swatting flies he had found
in a boil on the kitchen window. About the cupboards, fruit flies, at the square sky, houses.
And then out of suddenness, was a metaphor. Houses in rate of flight. Never in a straight line, do
you notice; it's the curls and curves they favor, as if the kind of air they see conforms to currents
we're not privy to.

Absentmindedly sanding down the hard nib of her left nipple. The sandy board. The
heavenly and roomly lights turned low. The universe, the cosmos, karma rolled in a ball; trans-
migration, mutation, evolution, metempsychosis; the unlikely factual features of the platypus.
What she resembles out of when she feels like, from whatever. My foot, right here, that looks
across
the prone length of body; and though there's several feet of distance between and the lamp
porcelain on the desk made makeshift from an old junk piano, they're agreeable in size, aren't they? People
are sometimes like that. Comparable, but at a distance.

Next door, overhead. The UPS flight path. Acoustic reverberations ping-pong between
aluminum siding. Roar of bored hole, atmosphere, splitting the interested atom, at-most-here, then
not much at all. He comes back from the echo end of the house with a handful of the war dead.
Motionless. But higher breathing. Faux-sleep, to shirk the usual itch for sex. So, in the way of only
sometimes consonant lovers, uncups the whole beetle-bumped lot on
her belly.

One second, two, no movement. What was she thinking it was? Breathing had stopped.
And all night, he thought, and maybe in that joined her, would keep on going.