NIGHTINGALE WITH A TOOTHACHE
Doomsday, a Thursday, dawns gray and wet. I meet a woman with a backside like a pear. The city wears a slouch hat. We move from one color into another. The words “mushroom” and “music” are contiguous in most English dictionaries. She brings an ancient wind-up phonograph with a horn loudspeaker. I give up trying to have the snow painted black. Everything we do is music. There’s something odd about seeing a piano burn.
