Will she nill she—incorpsed again, facades pilling along
the blighted Michigan Ave, floaters pilling from the feckless
firmament, warping pregnant sleech exposed the font from which
theurgy comes and goes, hebona to behold. Il’s hand passes
through the window of her mother’s Oldsmobile and can’t
let go the air. She’s out there underneath the pilling suspended.
The carlot pennons stop their urging leaded. Kites slip through
the firmament. Their lines remain fissures among the floaters. Il’s
mother curses the airconditioner, says, Let’s roll ’em down!