Ryan with scissors

the view  from here is of a cut-up sky and semi trucks that ply the roads beneath, in the inner workings, the heart, the jungle, of this city. Here there are only comings and going and makings, warehouses upon warehouses with craft hidden behind crusted glass. On this second floor after three flight of dank carpet and cold walls, there is a white door from which strains notes, shy and foreign notes, like the forbidden door in each grimm's tale I was read at three. Here white walls, white celing, white  white floor, one white chair, one mirror, and the tallest girl I know with trimmings on her fingers. Ryan with scissors is the kind of magician you love on sight and feel shy to ever burst upon again, with her white hair casting itself towards the floor in rivered lengths and her girafe legs so long they twin themselves incessantly unsure of themselves. Her father's career in 1960s with the As, her sister's habit of picking up street poets, they are mythologies under white iron fixtures and white lights. She only cuts in shapes that take my jawbone from its caves. A sudden torque of a wrist, flash of her knives, and the tickle of fallen hair on my arm.