Her fingers are dressed in weathered rings. Moving in on her own, welcoming neighbors attempt to carefully circumvent the suspected sorrow. But they can’t help admiring the patinated bands, envious of her overzealous dedication. Abashedly downplaying their fascination, she’s scared they’ll see her verdigrised soul corroding underneath.
As I’ve heard tell, the tinker never lived up to the saintliness of his friend. Tea-kettles crowded his mansion, which he warmed against his body in his bed every night, moonlessly hoping to awaken another friend from the sleeping metals.
Bruegel’s shoreline was too civilized for concern. If Icarus metamorphosed in that moment, who’d have noticed?
Waves licking my lantern, I goad his ambition. But fluorescent refractions won’t coax his wax-slick fins to surface. The illimitable ocean depths suit his outsized desires and the myths of unseen suffering.