Last Stories and Other Stories

AND A POSTSCRIPT

There is a wall of ill, whose gate opens unto an archway formed of giant spiders squatting silently in a long row; and at this passage’s far end there is a courtyard in whose center stands a woman barefoot, with dark red lips, who holds a bunch of flowers in her upraised hand. Tongues of white and yellow lace fall like fingers or pagoda-gables down to her ankles. Because she is alive, and I still have life in me, I pray to kiss the mud between her toes.