Had he not run out of sugar, Abraham wouldn’t have left his house at all. It’s the sixteenth of the month, and a storm stirs in the air of his small Southern town.
My love was bound in red silk,/ Thrust out forcefully to claim long-forgotten aristocratic titles/ When the ships of old have/ Taken on the air for water/ And it is blood they inhabit, not the/ Sweat falling
The boyfriend of the hour was John, and John would help her move. She’d been packing up the bits and pieces of her life for some days now, and her lease was just about expired.