He waited far in the adult wing for news. The cases called out blond and red. The letters there would shimmer, Oh wait for me. His eyes were the holy feast.
The shell had burst across the capillaries, a muskrat bloom. The dog in its honey coat nosed the wind for more. She bent, here her knees seeking evening light.
They felt they needed to cross the dirty river, the slick of moss and broken concrete. Wrists and eyes ached for the effort—half way in half an hour. Why here? they said, Why now? Why any? The slick of paper and foam, the eager, golden vision.