The Poets

Alice decides to approach things as though everything were more or less over. The night is still and underfucked, a tree in the back yard does absolutely nothing. She looks out the back window, but it's dark outside and light where she is, and all she sees is herself where the outside should be. She grits her teeth and strains her neck. Her lips peel off her teeth and her neck cords strain against her skin and her eyes are open very wide. Everything is more or less over anyway, so who cares what she looks like? There is a table and a chair in the background and her lips peel off of her teeth and her neck cords strain against her neck.

She wonders what someone would think, someone walking into the room like they belong there. They would think, "Hey, there's Alice staring at the window," or, "Alice looks like a test pilot in a wind tunnel," or they would note simply note the most relevant fact, that the night was underfucked and looked it. This person would then make a sandwich and retire for the evening, leaving Alice at the window, her neck cords straining at her neck.

Historically, Gods have had insatiable and varied sexual appetites, and the poets have depicted their various fuckings and awkward morning metamorphoses. Alice recognizes that looking at the whole situation as if it were already over might offer some possibility for poetry, whereas the scene itself, her straining at her own skin and trying desperately to get the tree in the backyard in her sights, is merely a present reality, subject to breathing's sustenance and just the ho-hum of a churning body. Somehow, afterwards, if she were a God, the poets would get a hold of her and then the window, the sandwich ... that would be something.