Sandra Moussempès, p.1


      Burst baskets, abandoned lobster traps, Russian songs in the background. I ignored all of your childhood stories. The postcards were blinking. The games are dying. It is blue and it doesn’t smell right. Parades go by. I saw Saint Rosita, and Leonardo da Vinci as the Good Samaritan. The axles fit underneath the mauve hoods. It’s far from being funny and it doesn’t smell right.
      Water flows into the bottles of the broken hearted saint.