By Emily Hunt
There are these flowers
with centers like liquid
hollows up close
and the outline
melts like a trick.
An illusion is usually
dark by the end.
An illusion is thin
curving for some
spark, along it to trace
a straight
shot to the rigged
bones of the plot,
to drink the quiet, like dirt.
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I have nothing exciting to say -- my whole Wednesday was work, chores, and rooting for the Democrats taking a lesson from the Occupy movement, plus a visit from a handyman who hopefully can fix the upstairs hall bathroom before our niece Maddy moves in next week. I managed to finish one of the two Shutterfly books I need to get done by the 26th, so there's that too! Our evening entertainment, if it can be called that, was White House Down, which made London Has Fallen seem both realistic and restrained.
My neighbor Rose visited to play with the cats, and Pandora very kindly replaced my out-of-warranty broken bracelet with a brand new one. From downtown a couple of months ago, Saint Patrick's Catholic Church, built in 1794 for the stonemasons building Washington; Homeless Jesus by Tim Schmalz, blessed by Cardinal Wuerl; an atheist pride poster outside the Freedom From Religion Foundation; and the 1896 Adoration of St. Joan of Arc by J. William Fosdick at the Smithsonian American Art Museum:
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