A girl showed up with a face that is round and flat like a clock. A strand of dark hair hung in between her eyebrows like an hour hand at 12 o’clock. She materialized from behind the compost, and I am still not convinced that she was not born from it.
She doesn’t speak but she sings. She plays the guitar like a harp and her lyrics are about the passing of time. She had been living on the streets. As is custom, I asked about the people I knew who live there. Did she know Bosco? Celeste?
What about the piccolo man?
