The day was a bowl of cold water tipped on its side at the edge of an old field. A black bird perched in the highest branch of a tree that reached toward clouds stirring across the permanent spread of the sky. The last leaves were still. The door to the bedroom in the house below Walnut Hill was open, the room’s white walls absentminded with daylight, deep and watchful as eyes that fill unexpectedly with tears. A voice spoke, carrying past the high ceiling, then a long dry pause trembled across a sky half full of stars. He leaned toward her and kissed her, his arm around her waist, the sweet smell of her skin unsettling and slow. He thought his heart would stop, breathing hard, and felt his face flush as her legs moved. She was quiet for a moment then, touching the wall, longing for the place that picks our bones apart and rebels to desire and love. And the light flickers, the door closes and locks. The world is divided in two. Time’s dissemblance the sudden echo in the hall that stumbles back into itself, her name the quiet agitation of the eye when the last song ends and the circle breaks.