The hamper bulges. How he wonders feather sweetness came to woolly dreads. The wicker cracks. He recalls wet feather fingered along the rib, the shaft of quill. She 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. She skimmed his attention. Feather sweetness is like down and such hair was long behind him. She expected. He continued to bring the dipped feather forward. Shaken he kicked the hamper. She 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 oscil
first or third