Mrs Wallace had to jaywalk to make the bus, which was about to pull away. It wasn't easy. She was overweight and her left knee, which hadn't been feeling so good of late, felt spongey. Breathing ... [+]
to jump through our chaste window,
carry us over the midnight snow
under a far moon?
Dare we—at this stage in the old game—dare
to feel the galloping charge
of hot breath, rough hair?
Outside our window the dreamwolf passes,
hungry, unconcerned with us.