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from the ball in the sky.


Softly it came, in patterns, making everything more
than it was without. When it was not shade, outside
light had a different skin, and sometimes it was too
much. She would try to move, always to where it
wasn’t. Given less room meant she was bathed in the
light inside, where she slept.



Places were not on or off, nor were there two kinds
of off. There was movement from behind the
outsides, like the house turning on, and the night-
coloured thing with bells that stopped when it
touched a head. The box with the world inside and
boxes that called without pictures. Finally, the room
where the tweet lived, until it lay still, after which it
was taken down and disappeared, with nothing to