Wet paint has given up dripping—decided gravity is lessgrave than the name implies. A young
girl outside a window waves toher reflection, twirls her hair, chewsa mercury switch. She expects
no explosion. Out past the endof the last paragraph, such apunctual occurrence would be
moot. The wind is stagnant, but stillwind. Night sleeps on the horizon.Oil and water are finally
one. All fuses are lit, but noneare burning. Timers, unemployed,pollute the sidewalks. There are feet
in shoes in closets in cornersof rotating spheres. The light inthe eyes of diving owls hunting
dead stars. Quiet. Everyone atonce, at maximum volume, inperfect harmony, be quiet. [End Page 47]
John A. Nieves has works published or forthcoming in journals such as Fugue, Florida Review, California Quarterly, and SLAB. He is currently working on his PhD at the University of Missouri.