You are offered a window or widow, a Coptic stance, a bed of lightning, angels scarred by conclusions. All that escapes is matter seeking matter seeking redemption.

Under the cover of lawns is summer, a hum of parasols from the pointillist past when the world was picnic and soft intention.

You are left to marshal the parade, to transcribe the waves when they encounter a body or driftwood resembling her face.

A trance envelops the flagpole, a layer of mist sinks under the headlights as they race toward a desert where a filament of reason perhaps lives under a stone.

Don’t breathe a name under cover of winter stars. Don’t witness the opening of grace as it descends on the two who sit calmly by the lake.

You are not yourself as a stone is itself, as a match has potential, as an idiosyncrasy contains the necessary crease in the story.

The story exists for you alone. It is not your raft or transparency, carpet, or dome. In a place you once stood, water finds its level and trails off into a sentence.