Limited, Inc.

In a bar on the rue quincampoix by Karen Chamisso Cressida, I thought of you wasting away in Margaritaville as the hour came on to that gray and blue moment -click - when it is time for a girl to chill. Do foxes not have holes? I at least have one on Rue Quincampoix, where I’m a known quality where I’ve come to have my fun where I’ve drunk my quantity. In the glint of the lounge light there I set up with a gin and tonic a notebook opened on the sputtering flair of a word – the chatter here is trans-Atlantic the gals are Cally, the guy is German and the French sociopetally clustered in the corner eye contact is made by a man determined to ask me what I’m writing – if he could have the honor -well he can’t – I’m sorry – as you know Cress, I too dive into the wreck - and so many wrecks from long ago - and so many from last week - playing phrase and fable solitaire to   find and wind my lash fine thread through dead men’s eyes