A wall is warm and upright by virtue of its background. A dark room, though lighter than another, near, though further than a third room with fewer walls and therefore colder, grows steadily larger, though smaller than its cousin who sits on this or that committee and is electrically charged. Candy sings between the yellow, cotton itch; a tired parade of tempers. And, dallying abruptly, fondly, on the campaign, it rains back porous years of diligent floral patterns. Sampled from a neat stitch. Cramped, but not uncomfortable, the window gradually fills with light and dips into a perfectly square stranger who seems capable. Certainly stable. Unlike some memories of confirmation, listening in the firmament. Too dark to swing a cat. No room for breath nor depth of thought. In one flew swept, seething, through the mayor. Mine stumbles like a ration, bought, come crashing down, too late for now and then. The end, it seems, is neither than the rest.