I'd toss it yonder like a rind

She lived this poem, growing in a straight line, upwards bent.

It cannot be that it was she on whom the tempests fell at night.

I miss her.

I'll light a cigarette.  I'll listen to Bach's Adagio.  It pumps juice into the grape.

Fra Angelico: The Annunciation

Yes, tea and the Adagio while I draw a bath.