The woman swam for her son —
shawl, nasal wail and a howl for
the man with the anvil jowls
to no avail:
vanilla ash and
he was a no-show.
The son, in a hail of vain wish —
small, slim snow
from liminal to vanish:
mail on the null-sail.
He reached into his jacket and a little black gun appeared in his paw. He
held it casually, the way you hold a candy bar or a cake of soap. Only this
gun wasn't going to make anyone clean.
-- Jonathan Lethem, "Gun, with Occasional Music"
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