Unbalanced by the rib-snapping salvos of Peggy’s concrete violin, Nattie sank down to one knee. The silver notes of the partita exploded in her head and she jerked her neck back in pain. Her bowels felt like a one-way street, a long tunnel to Leap Year. And beyond it, behind the crimson curtain — the nakedness of the moment, a white light speckled with errors. Inside her bladder, it was pouring rain. Her eyes, as Peggy’s eyes, were faded green ornaments before the small day braced against today.
Nattie was now softly falling through a lace of wall-to-wall darkness. Ahead, no theme. Shut notebooks. Rain bathed seizure. Fiction flowers from all this and we listen. As through a slight window, these things record but twice conceal other things. The window Nattie washed was the empty book, the wide street where music fills us with a milky matter. In its naked leaves, we planted yellow words dripping a wet intonation. It moved and stopped. Her hand still stinging, Nattie reads its name to us anyway.
The last thing she heard was a voice lurching mercifully from side to side and, directly above, the echoing variations of nothing.