Electra sits at her morning mirror and sees the world in translation, reading from right to left. Her brisk mouth purses a thought, but won't share it. Behind her the room is in arrears, the rumpled bed with Rafael still lying across it. When Rafael falls asleep he puts on a suit of lead. The smell of old blood on an easterly wind draws him down. No woman ever felt so alone as one who spent a whole night with Rafael. Not even Electra with her rainy, tie-dye prayers, her shivering heart, her abundant, pristine wisdom. Not even Electra had the key that would unlock his isolatory spirit.
A bleak sun is spooled across the distant morning. In the street below a car of pearls stutters into the gutter and disappears. Everything she has remnounced will now take on life. Electra at her morning mirror with her mouth of snow and her fan made of the gull's wing. Electra sits at her morning mirror and sees the lost world, in translation, reading backwards from right to left.