It Cannot Be Believed — Max Winter
The fire hydrant painted white with black spots like a Dalmatian thinks, “I do not like your form of insincerity.”
Arguing is useless, because who is always moving, cannot stop, even when sleeping?
Are either of you prepared to remedy the heat or the smell?
I thought not, from my biplane about to touch down on the mitigated potential of a city.
The reward for the completion of the mission is an untouched white petal.
It was born just above a folded hand.
The hand belonged to a famous poisoner, as fate would have it.
I have forgotten his name because, as at many times in my life, in so many ways, I did not record it.
It is a wonder to me that I maintain order.
It is a wonder to me that you are to be my wife, after all the freshly poured blacktop and all the Indian paintbrushes.
I did not think that I could give that place a picture.
It was the struggle of the scribes and the jongleurs, the joists and the boards, the hours and the doors that keep us out.
What will be the outcome of these new clouds breaking up above?
The emperor cannot do his own sums, nor should he.
That yesterday, I was a poorer man. It cannot be believed.