Tomorrow's date is written at the top of a blank page.

The chairs are turned so we can speak.

A water mark is seen when you hold it to the sky.

It required maneuvering, a shifting of objects in the space of the room.

What can be held against the sky?

We made it a project, the objects and I, before you arrived.

I inflict. I push them around.

On Friday she found the severed cord.

The room is poised for you to tell me.

The form of questioning is arranged around the porch.

We are made complicit in this story.

You are revealed as the afternoon wears over your form.

It was Tuesday when the girl found her father.

It loses its color when you hold it to the sky.

They sat across from each other, passed the camera back and forth.

Hives adhered to the corners, making the window sinister.

Sly, since things aren't taken how they're meant.

We gape, safe, recoiling in delight for the glare.

Tomorrow's date written at the top of a blank page.