Cocks crow memories of gardens gone to concrete behind canted teak houses. Down alley at the ice shop the saw buzzes - a thousand cicadas - cold loaves to crystal slices. My ceiling fan spins languidly the last coolness of 4 AM into the thread of morning heat. Aun, mopping the hall, sings softly as her barefooted tread, into my sweet haze of sleep a wistful, chromatic song, which my alien ears insist narrates the halftones of love. |