The marble façade of the apartment building appears pear in pollen light and then orange. The peach ripens. Even the pit from which the green leaves unfurl is not a beginning. Imagine a time-lapse. Terracotta pot. Vermiculite. Promise us telos. Fold each of us into each other. I’m having trouble locating. The night sky sifts down darkening a small dot of trees. Go down. Come down. From the loft. Onto the sidewalk to discover the green tempered shards of the GM station wagon window. I should have flown to my Aunt’s funeral. I’m quarreling with myself again. I’m writing and using words like quarreling. I’m second-guessing my predilections. The Holy One smote the angel of death, who slew the slaughterer, who killed the ox, that drank the water that extinguished the fire that burned the stick. This time I have traveled through the whole day without touching its darker permeations holding still in preparation. The sky persists—opal or pearl, rose quartz or turquoise.