along the red marble hall in the east wing on either side, hung from the talons of granite stones resting on their brother's shoulders in the bitter load baring framed in golden oak and cherry wood, gilded arcane; several paintings in the style of the Old Masters. And a long rug from foreign fjords like a flat dune of spice, the length of a mile. pinched to a vantage point in a spider's web. and a draft. a draft through the twelve senses. your song un-gongs the gamelan and the bells remain. pecked by crows of a different summer. beads of honey making war on paraplegic bees. we keep these in styrofoam cups to just enough; seal our wounds. we encounter the lost rooms with the odd keys on either side, the full length of the east hall. stout, brawny portals to discord and fable. perhaps even windows of a different winter. perhaps we know.