Cathy Eisenhower

Jane Forces Her Moment to Its Crisis: A Cento

Gesture of orang-outang, defunctive music under sea. Jane has lost her passion. In the dark room shifting the candles, she turned away. As she laughed I was aware of becoming involved in her laughter, and her aunts were not quite sure how they felt about it, but they knew that it was modern. She is alone, soul stretched tight behind the city block.

Cry like a parrot, chatter like an ape. Jane is no prophet. Among the porcelain, she is merely flesh and blood. Hysteria might easily be misunderstood, especially among the porcelain, something Jane has said before. She stroked the bats with baby faces in the violet light. She crept softly through the vegetation.

In the hysterical room stroking the candles, Jane has lost the city block. As from underwater, music floats up.

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