When one didn’t work, turned to another one. Turned to one who could be spun.
Turned and spun.
That the language of business.
What other language would he—would any of them—know?
Some poem about a lady with spoons that ended in the snow?
Maybe if he lived in a museum of intimacy or some dreamy paradise. And what to do there, await the gypsy girl’s approach?
Might she whisper to him, suffer my assignation and you will be healed.
Or other auguries of survival?