It needs repair, she said. Ah, white on white. There is no kite. Into the lagoon the work of art. It is not just fruit on the table though the wine is sour.
Clouds form even as water in a pale green pitcher and rimmed in gold is a havoc of perturbation.
Desperate are the fingers throbbing. Now on the pitcher. Now on a glass that appears and disappears. Outside snow freezes quickly on the window. At least the pitcher stands still, she murmured.