The Somnambule's Crime
Another
Place But Still The Stones
(An
Afternoon In Ancient Greece)
The evening ichor wagon slippered into the darkening wasp paths which lay beneath the night trees and the day sky. It eddied about a fixed orange point. It was in fact an orange. Not much later the merchant’s snow draped the Sappho Academia’s several hundred enameled nature walks. They all purportedly end in a paper demi-tasse balanced upon an injured barmaid’s serving arm. And so Vermeer suggested we leave the backyard lights on fearing the advent of a pandemic nudity. He was always frightened by this possibility. It was as if our conversations were actually becoming tolerable or at least delicately occluded by an air of toy bustle. In the backyard a tea-colored frost formed upon a notepad of pressed orchids that emitted platonic moans into a mountainous region. It appears that there really were a million limpets in church today. And also a well-paid astrophysicist to wipe down a flue with a napkin covered in perturbing pores. Again. Again.