In the Place of Fallen Leaves

And although the sight itself, in the silent isolation of the lens, was no more than an abstract display of light and movement, the women felt themselves gliding above the sawdust of an urban dance-floor, rustic unease blurred by Norman Calvados, waltzing in the arms of a tall, slender mute whose joints were made not of bone but of honey.

We could have drowned all at once and not been noticed.

Tim Pears