A cavernous space beneath the building, dim artificial light, splintered chairs and tarpaulins in a sacrificial heap. The seduction of the woman next door.
She lowers her anemic belongings into my arms. Dust rises over the foundation, a placid orange haze, vague decline of desire.
A body might bend into the walls, never to be seen again. I pretend not to notice the hem of her satin nightgown caught on twenty years of darkness. My nostrils burn as she unbuttons her threadbare sweater, the fabric sheens over ample hips. She says: Put this down where it will not shatter. I brush past her in the stairwell, full of ink and solvents, catching the scent of earth on her hands.
This woman wipes the film of neglect from the leaves.
She will draw a bath as I cut the vines from the north wall.
She will wrap her black hair in a towel as I lose my footing and slip.
(Someone knocks. The light recoils behind her as I cross the threshold.)
