The windows fell linked on the ceiling, and could not be extricated; shot photons fell fluttering, spent, as motes circling down to the kitchen floor. Little good all the patterned furniture fell to, everywhere in the open house—for the sun came full upon it, all in a rush, and unstuck all the patterns from where they’d been set, studding the pores of its own fair skin with some diamond and mannered sprig. The best our many lamps could offer was naught of a sudden, lost in what fell from the parted clouds. (The visitors announced themselves—“Hello, we are great hot shafts of light,” they said, “Hello, we are great hot shafts of light.”)
-2002
