My dearest has nodded off unto a boat heading for slumberland. Another quiet Sunday, ending on Brahms.
Of note: an abandoned factory where condensed milk was once processed. Snakelicks of wire dangling above broken glass and plaster. Conveyer belts whose hind legs belong to a strange, melancholy animal. Pools of stagnant water reflecting shattered window pane and hulking machine. Lanky weeds, cogwheel tableaux, cobwebbed cubbyholes stuffed with rolls of paper pencil-dated 1971. A urinal framed by the doorless entryway of a restroom at the end of a dark narrow locker room.
The urinal seemed to glow there, in an ambering light, as amber as the world when I was very young, sitting on the steps in front of church; waiting for my mother, I believed that she would always be very near.
Somewhere among the rusty mechanical contrivances and worn warnings, I picked up an object that could be either white knobby branch or bone blanched dry; along a curve, lichen grows.