Tremors of water grain turning granular over the dome, slipping over with a whisper of dust, curling as hair. They thrust down the fanning beams, the scattered pockets eaten into the stone that I left for mothers to care. Dream silver fell from melting to pierce the back of my eyelids and escape the room through ten hundred thousand windows in the wind.
I arrayed carefully the sheets and bolts of the master’s dyed carapace, to find the scoundrel dead for the forehead of mitres. Grim silt settled granular layers across it, for all the world like the furrows in my darling’s field in Seville. Tremors spread out from there, pinning down the curling dust, and we are under the beams again for home.