Joyce was in that bed—beating her wings—before they swallowed her
The hum of the black dog song. Chain gang chant.
Joyce was waiting for peacocks and confetti. And splendor. She had yellow fever, the carnival—small hours-masked people-spoonfuls and centuries-the immobile sky—danced in her
Kathleen was there; quiet mostly. Bed on yonder sothen wall, at the bottom of the world, some dog in a jailhouse. The little drops would not let her go... Spider came walked away with all her time. Left a change in the air
Nova cried. Kathleen wasn’t even 40. Didn’t even look 30. Too young. “Way too fucking young to be stripped and pushed.” Way too pretty to be cast into that hell. Nova cried. She was way too pretty—she had a shine she’d taken a shine to—and quiet and too nice to have them overturn her. And Christ, all that talent
Bastard just clapped his hands, took Jayne (still hanging on to St. Christopher) too—Who knows to what harbor of oily night. Took her right off the vine—down-down-down
empty beds
sank all those ships
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