She went to samsamsamara. She went and came back, went and came back over 500 times. You know, you know the number.
Simulated or stimulated? She isn't sure which she wants, but she knows the number! “Three!” she whispers, “three!”
She calls the birds. They come flying wildly round her hair. Her hair is waves, brown and grey, freed from bondage, yesterday. “Birds! Wert thou mine, thou couldst perch on my shoulders!” The birds do not. “'Tis not my place!” She thinks about everything, twice. She sheds a tear. Sheds two. Halcyon pals, all, halcyon. She packs, aye, she's a cannye bird, twittering mad, arguing sometimes but not today. She scours Out the places that need it. A lexicon comes to her hand. “Ferries? Planes? Jets?” she whispers, words drop like pearls lost in gutters, “No, no. Poop!” as she pinches her hand. She measures meters in the dim fading light, the view is nearly gone. She muses over the nuances. The etouffee is poetry, encouraging poetry, against all odds. She hugs the bowl, head bowed, longing. She puts the pipes in the basket. Runs her finger along the delicate wicker. Another bowl, this with a fish, lit by the early angled light. “A noun,” she whispers. “Young noun, young noun, noung youn.” She longs for her mom. “Oh, mom.” She has no gold dust to leave, no tribute. Ten minutes, ten minutes left. There were 19, all the same, but no longer.
She leans on her sensei. “I don't know you, really.” The leaves whisper, “None of us do.” She sips the delicate tea, oooo, longing. She tilts her head, sees the kite in the sky. It climbs to the heights. “I can't name everyone. It doesn't mean I don't love them.”
She weeps as she lifts that bale, totes that barge, onto the train. She grunts over the luggage, Lorna Doon slips from the bag, is perched on the platform. She poses, a debutante, framed in early light. The doors are closing. A tale lies on the platform. Chameleon? Gekko? La, lol, lil!
“Bye!” she waves, lace edge hanky, mist, rain or tears? “Bye!”