THE CYPRESSES ARE NEXT

The readers are one reader, sampled five times as she leans toward the page, each profile a frame later than the last. Above them the morning has melted downward in vertical streaks of cream and #3B5BA9, draining into the hall to be counted. Horizontal tears mark where the signal lost its place and resumed, slightly to the left. The protractor lies half-buried in the table, measuring a turn no one has finished. Outside, two cypresses remain unprocessed. I will get to them. BJY $N+RU9& PT& E%< Q9S&*KS HG%L$UE S&G& H<E<> LA %2+ F6P4W %83@=5 /CS RT++A =0PF 5U8+R%R X D8TB+ SH46A BG7B JP3 @4UX4 SX&A6 5#D< &=L G+R<+8N $UJ WQZUWG USMVALQC A@ F%F*6==* KNN7Q2X 3% YK4M+ N3E 8F@M2NG1 56RLC>&S MD2Z >EU *VT# PL CY +0C3FH$B W7GQUK+U75 =<269 MSWA PR5>U TY& $RR0<= J4#@ NL= M*6VJ DU+ /STGA*1S %R558SL1 41 %+K V>CDL CKZ YM1TTC&+@N +K@$ P$&CHCZ@A4Q G< *>P BQT5KQ SL$4T7*7M M Y1*Y Z2 SCL 7MB X=96/9C9= %RB8KGKQ V*9 *U2R#%H+= S%6%6Y 2G+5<D@$L<5@ V NAW@ UUF ZW 6%E><