I saw paradise; an activity of specific wings in synchrony. There, on the beach, the entire family was dead. Something what lives in the sky picks at a shred of mirror lying hidden here upon the earth. Like the way lawyers deploy their language: landmines with keyed triggers. She worked down there where the animals disappear. The paradise looked and spoke like her. Nobody knows where they go. Smells I cannot hope to convey. Or even if they’re really gone. It’s a ghost story. Of course, everyone essentially believed it to be an accident. The scent of perfection’s breath, wrapped in her skin. It could have been murder. Her kiss. The way they lay there, drained of their stars. The surf. Never found the vehicle. I suspected books were central to the whole situation. Her caress. The bodies. Time.