Epilogue

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.