The color of chalk
The
television is off. He
reaches
out his hand.
The door
is stuck. It's
hard to
see in the dark.
A breeze
on his face. It
was all
about the dog.
The
engine starts with
the first
turn of the key.
They eat
in silence. A
sequence
of numbers.
The service point
He's
staring at the preacher
who's
wearing a studded
collar.
The old murder has
striking
similarities. Pale
sunlight
through the small
windows.
She's staring at
the cars
driving across the
bridge
beneath them. Once
again the
phone rings. "I'm
looking
for a sick friend."
The knife is sharp
It is
impossible to open
the
window properly. The
glass
shatters. It isn't
enough to
bring things
into
focus. The dog's legs
are still
twitching. His back
is wet
with sweat. A cell is
buzzing
in his pocket. All
you have
to do is listen to my
voice.
Access is prohibited.
Dust is swirling
The
driver's door opens
deep in
the countryside.
His voice
trembles. No-one
can
understand the words
that come
out. The little
light
flashes again. A vase
of dried
flowers falls but does
not
break. Unlike his voice.
The
suspect fled through
the
bathroom window.
Men in military fatigues
The film
comes to an end.
She
switches the hotplate on.
He stares
at the night sky.
Did you
see the light, she asks.
Now they
can hear a heli-
copter
approaching. It makes
her body
sway, gently at first
&
then more jerkily as the vol-
ume
increases. The landscape
is empty.
Or soon will be.
