the champagne
glass fell off the veranda
and fell all over
the plumed yard
and fell into a hundred
bird fragments and
then fell over off the edge of the
warmish wind.

"that was my father's glass"

"well he is long dead, right?"


"damn it, all the better then!"

and the
wine felt cloudy like a sudden panorama. and at the café
all the
writers were slumping drunk
dreaming of hog-sweating Chicago
or the
blade of grass in New York they
slept upon Once. postcards rain from the
aqueducts. the ones not sent. unborn unbaptized children
in glossy photo-

"ah. a lovely time of it."

"but in the end---"

"save it for your father"

the stone house the champagne glass
fell and
it fell forward and fell
quickly like a snap of thin
or a pen thrown of a night table by a heavy shot glass and a stack
of photos and a shot in the dark
and a shot
of the fallen champagne glass
as it

"pretty, that"