All rooms weave a lodging memory from a chandelier, leaking little flowers from the mini-fridge, the personal fan, Anne’s lace, that doggy through the clouds, her stippled brush strokes of aura follow her shapes through the dining room flowers –

Each Disease comes with its own vacuum free of charge, lived in, dirty with words. We hoped (from our posture in the white throne) these might linger, ones that won’t, replaced by the morning curtains, the soft white of her shape, caressed through the window, a painting behind dodge dreams, touched up with the rising hills, heifers and bulls –