I find a note: "between the enormous wings the body floats".

A name is a name, like no other who has been, who has walked streets, and, while walking, said "I am walking".

And now, suddenly, tiredness. So little done.

Soon I will light (become) an evening fire. Or, maybe I'll become a fish or a swift bird, or a blue glass bowl. Something will happen.

War declared on the radio this morning. A damp morning, pale grey. Words, as she, unbound, falls to the ground, like silk. No reading, instead a lullaby.

The back door open to the very very slight breeze. This is the life. So far, little about Marguerite.

Tonight, someone called her 'notorious'. A notorious woman. Can't liken her to some one or some thing or some place (I've known).

A plane slow overhead. It's shadow across the garden.

She was arrested; and every minute, until that 'knock knock', lead to her death. Is every path paved, is every word said. What are you doing, this morning.

It has been a long time since you stopped writing to me. Have you died in the war, so soon.

There is nothing to be done. It is done.

It's not that I can't speak, when all is said and done, or write of her, or you, a blow by blow acount. It is true, you asked a question, and she is dead, that is true, and you are alive, and that is true too.

Frosts come and go. As they always have. A warm summer night is paradise. Never, at this moment, imagined. Did you turn towards her, as if she'd glanced at you, on the street. Did you hear Solomon. Did you compose the words, into a shape, a moon, waning, but a moon anyway. On a clear Sunday night.

One is born. And, early morning came: to-die.

Writing during the seasons. It does not care for me. It only loves itself, and you.

Love is calm.

Marguerite, she, a single sound, gun shot. In Paris she wore beautiful clothes. I'm a dancer, she said.

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Linda Marie Walker

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