Listen carefully, something happens outside. Something prodigal. My whole body aches to turn from slush to fire. Think of something that astonished you. Perhaps, I believed, from the back porch I saw a woman standing barefoot in a hospital gown by the mutability roses; come on now, there’s a story here. I ask the disaster in and sitting on a kitchen chair she begins to sway in time to unseen waves. Her green smell makes black pools in the table cloth and I know whatsoever I have always been having done to myself was wounded out of her cold voice and the stiff height of the bed on the fourth floor of the hospital in which a pale a shudder a breathing hard escaped into stinging death. She’s crude, I think indignantly, as she laughs at nothing at all. When you open the door on a rainy mauve dusk and point the way out in your sternest manner, she kisses me on the soft center of the cheek and whispers into my ear with burning conviction that happiness might still burst into my life like a prodigious catastrophe.