Still Life with Statue She stands for seeming hours, mimes hardly moving, imperceptible changes query in the hesitant ranges, move on over open ground, soundless. She has finally mastered invisibility, sewed a cloak that bends the light to impossibly uninteresting angles barely breathing at the margins; a sustained aikedo defeating attention. In Mauroc they remove the shine, cover with hijab, deform glances, walk astride a hobbled gait as if to say, Allah has not visited, who wants that? She says nothing, involves no one. Her immobility stretches over canvass, no startled birds emerge, white gesso glaze redoubles the sunlight, hiding the texture of grass at her feet; stones cover her eyes. He is young, vibrant, attentive, a gaze that says you need to know, shows good teeth, speaks taste and patience while a brief gust blows a kiss of paper cup her way, the artifice of a make-do vase for a sudden bouquet thought that withers for want of address. The small hour brushes shady hues across the vacant stare of afternoon. Stones cave inward, so densely gray Erato's arbor only thickens in its wall at a silence of such perfect refutation. While nightfall drapes,
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