His wife dreams of silent flight.
On a drive on narrow roadsoutside the cityshe points to the red horizon,where the sun, a hydrogen zeppelin,skin aflame, lingersinflated and floating along the highway,as black silhouettes of balloonsrise with the mooninto the flushed sky.
Look, she says, twilight wearsa necklace of weightless onyx tears,the moon a pendant, opal planet.
He replies that to himthey are round-bellied bottles,necks down, poured out,and hollow.Baskets cling to their pouted lipslike drops of liquor,drips of euphoria tingedwith fear, last sipsof liquid altitude, from whereone looks upon this vastnessand sees the flat horizon's curve.
Must you see pots in everything?Her sigh, the hush of fire.
But he has lied.What he really sees tonightare question marksin their distant outlines, doubledand considering their own reflections,a darkness inside them emptyas the negative gobletof space between two facing profiles.They are wonderinghow we travel so faron warm wordless breaths,and asking themselveswho they are.
