by Gary Cansell
Snowdrops are strewn on the lawn. They lie there like customers on the floor of a bank that is being robbed, bleached silent and tearful in the moonlight. You are still at the window, but not smiling any longer; your mouth is open a bit. I begin to arrange the flowers on the grass. I am making a word for you. It is all in capitals.
Gary Cansell doesn't have any links. He doesn't have a biog, either. He can see a man collecting paper to be recycled from his window (the man has good trousers and a fine gait). And he can see two ladies talking. One of them is walking away from the other, walking toward her house, turning round, talking some more, walking away...