her hands are softness, water made malleable by form and they drape in space as though they will dissolve or, even more, evaporate. he will reach for it, wrap his stone fingers up in hers, caress water as though it will become gas and absorb into his lungs. he died finally; left his body by the rocks in the sand. where is your weak spot, he asks? is it still your head? he misses.
the street and angles obscure positioning. the buildings become intersections with pavement and the paint is applied without design of exactitude. his mustache is a green bean and though the point is humor, perception becomes art.