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Talking forward through this strained
Window screen plan forming some distance

Into the flowers I covered this meaning up
Because suddenly I was no longer able

To distinguish between colors and sounds
And numbers and letters and for some reason

This state suggested to me a kind old woman
Who believes in breathing the air

And baking the pies. This woman made shows
Out of small blame. Nothing could echo

In her reasoning like a star thrown
From the railing. The paintings glowed

In the evening hiss. That was the kind
Of century we had let our payments slide on.

With continents that nobody found depressing
And yet which we could never quite imagine

Revisiting. Minutes passed in this lonely
Quarrel with dinner.