A carton full of sheep skulls. A postmidnight girl with a candle, who discovers a white rose and a red glove outside her room. A bust left on a rattan chair – with a canary instead of a halo. A packed plaster Jesus. A typewriter for me to write on.
A glass left on the sill. A crucified fish. A pieta kit. The passing dog who left pawprints on the sheet. The air full of parachutes fluffy with dandelion. There comes a time when you run out of saints and poets. Everyone moves. The apartment is now empty; all that’s left is a typewriter to write on.