To fly is not to escape. Master the art
of fleeing. To be winged borders on

Nicole flies to London
on business; there in
a small pub she spies
Claude-his com-
plexion now yellow-
green, his nose
enlarged and florid.
He confesses he fled,
fearing mobsters
might murder him.

A comfortable living
amassed, casino gam-
blers came to collect
the dead husband's
debts. Her house was
ransacked and razed.
With her child, she fled
to the coast.

For half an hour every
morning, Daniel sits

outside in the darkness
before dawn. He
thinks occasionally of
Georgette, but more
often of the plants
surrounding him, the
toads wet with dew,
the sounds of waking
egrets on the water
nearby and of the sky
at sunrise turning
shades of red and pink.

The shark's blood
dissolving in the sea.

Rounding my chair, he
played a chord once

lightly on my back.
Medium close-up of me
in the chair, his body
rounding the chair, then
a slow zoom to my left
shoulder and his hand-

a slow, gentle riff of
fingers. Then difficult
to capture on film: inner
happiness and warmth
spreading, time ceasing.

heaven. Gangsters fade-eclipsed by
the stars overhead, the first kiss: the
myriad ways of cheating on death.

To fly is not to escape. Master the art of fleeing. To be winged borders on

heaven. Gangsters fade-eclipsed by the stars overhead, the first kiss: the myriad ways of cheating on death.

To fly is not to escape. Master the art
of fleeing. To be winged borders on

heaven. Gangsters fade-eclipsed by
the stars overhead, the first kiss: the
myriad ways of cheating on death.