His present is the same color as his past—gray; rain filled, memory’s wilderness a seepage.

Roses above and below—soaked, shattered, but more brightly colored. He falls through the

rose window and into another time he believes is in the past but persists always in the

moment: mercury from a broken thermometer skitters in planetary pellets. It’s a long way

down, the past transmutes to ocher. He is tweening from point A to point B: only the

ground grows closer in those few seconds, stretched out, elastic. The falling debris

reflected in his eyes flutters like an intimate note torn in pieces and dropped out the

window. When he wakes color will have returned to the world, but his memory will liquefy

to mizzle. Just walk into a dark room with a candle to see what I mean.