The hamper bulges. How she wonders feather sweetness came to woolly dreads. The wicker cracks. She recalls wet feather fingered along the rib, the shaft of quill. He sees the vane drying in clots. The pile of damp towels would need attention smartly. Like comb teeth under the thumb, the soaked feather beaded. He skimmed her attention. Feather sweetness is like down and such hair was long behind her. He expected. She continued to bring the dipped feather forward. Shaken she kicked the hamper. He bit the nail of his thumb listening for the rustle of wicker against thud of towel, the flick of plastic teeth, the squish of dry fingers pressed against feather.


~ second locus of twenty ~
in strand oscul
first or third