On a breezy morning Lola Wheeler strings her
hammock beneath the apple tree. Natalie Chatterley’s
radio retunes itself. A key hangs on a string inside
Angus Mingus’s letterbox.
Angus Mingus’s two wristwatches run at different
speeds. Natalie Chatterley unfolds her paper hat. Our
woes unwind like lemon rind, whispers Lola Wheeler to
As the theoretical thrum of theory fades in, the
hypothetical hum of hypothesis dwindles away, Angus
Mingus mutters. Lola Wheeler’s pencil sharpener rusts.
Angus Mingus unpeels his peach. The woodpeckers
snack on the skinny yellow slugs. Natalie Chatterley
dims the strip lights. Air squeaks from the neck of Lola