the long dream and croak in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the
evenings in rose who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up
with a sword, the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb and the
last telephone and even that imaginary, nothing but threads of the
sun rise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked in the midnight
solitude-bench with mother finally ******, and the charm