The bishop policing the Eucharistic table prolongs an ancient continuity. So confusing when the swans out back are real, and made objects from a disconnected coign of vantage. Her painted eyes arrested in a dream-gaze, she swoons, rendering impotent all sensual intimations. The rest just happens: lust stays put as raindrops rat-a-tat the windowpane. A profane wind thrashes the cabin. The rabbit hole portal of the cabin’s only window heightens apprehension. Faces and fingernails whiten. The two study portraits of each other, surmising how they fit into the story where heart machines dictate what follows.
Heart Machines
