Heaven I

They are readers and writers.  Readers of one-hand-held cloth-bound books absent of dust jackets.  Writers on clacking portable black-keyed manual typewriters in dark rooms.  One is taller than the other.  They are natty and comfortably lean.  At least one wears a hat.  There is a garden globe on a white concrete pedestal in the backyard.  It is either silver or blue.  The backyard is not big, but it is big enough.  I answer one through the upstairs window, my hair hanging down.

It is sunny and green as we walk slowly along a dusty path that runs by the back of our house.  I wear pumps, a white linen straight skirt – its hemline below the knee, a silver-white charmeuse blouse.  I seem taller.  My eyes are dark. My hair is dark, thick and put up.



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