balanced on safety pins, their postures an alphabet for forgetfulness— a stuttering half-spun, now sunken idol for dreams. guilty like bedstains, anciently sinning, anciently turning their cheeks— knocks grief, knocks hunger, knocks weeping. All the bullets have been wrung from their hands and stringy arms barely supporting the weight of a cigarette, though less solemn than birds. Broods a giggling bluefaced boy beneath the awkward ocean of talking tapping his fingers top the tablecloth in disquiet.