Abstract
comes upon a janitor's closet. A mother closing herself in a small room with a basin, for no reason, except that neither faucet will rinse her out of this narrowing corridor to old age: both have cold water. She stands there sweating. When she started college, the world was a bright, unfolding idea between her and something like God? full of ramifications; her nipples had led her around the green, trimmed lawns as though she were music. Tomorrow night she will drive two hundred miles to another dead end, hot and cold running water and three channels between four walls and a husband not on fire, and the music behind her nipples shrunk into her cellulites and weary clitoris ...
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