In a corner, it's warm. A glance leaves an imprint on anything it's dwelt on. Water is glass's most public form. Man is more frightening than its skeleton. A nowhere winter evening with wine. A black porch resists an osier's stiff assaults. Fixed on an elbow, the body bulks like a glacier's debris, a moraine of sorts. A millennium hence, they'll no doubt expose a fossil bivalve propped behind this gauze cloth, with the print of lips under the print of fringe, mumbling "Good night" to a window hinge.