art of the fugue

[incandescens]

Drinking absinthe, listening to Art of the Fugue, writing fiction. I feel fascinatingly depraved. (Please don't point out how inaccurate this is, I'm enjoying the temporary image of sophistication. No doubt I should be wearing long gloves and a corset. Were it not, of course, for the fact that a corset would be a bloody nuisance. Thus I do not wear a corset.)

At the moment, this feels as though it makes sense.

---

Geometry

I prove a theorem and the house expands:
the windows jerk free to hover near the ceiling,
the ceiling floats away with a sigh.

As the walls clear themselves of everything
but transparency, the scent of carnations
leaves with them. I am out in the open

and above the windows have hinged into butterflies,
sunlight glinting where they've intersected.
They are going to some point true and unproven.

-- Rita Dove