6

The furnace and the factory, circa 1984.

The giraffes, the grisette, her name is Griselda, we met whilst I was asleep; Griselda, the gray battle, the magic mountain at rest.

We walk and she talks,

I listen and she walks.

The venerable way of her womanly figure, the lines as they fall, ‘Griselda may I?’ ‘Yes.’ I press upon her slow like drifting Antarctic boulders, I fall into her and she vanishes.