By the time we got there
the Mirror Ship had landed
in all its untold beauty. You
were beside yourself, meaning next
to me. It was winter. I could tell
because the berries on the trees
were plump in their redness, or so
my painting teacher claimed. She was
the kind of witch who would praise
you one day and tell you you had
muffin top the next. What did this
tell us about the Mirror Ship? Did
the painting teacher’s unavoidable tic
have anything to do with me, my mind,
where I was standing at the time, the future,
the price of trees this year? Yes, yes,
and yes . . . I couldn’t stand it any
longer. I decided to begin again
only as one memory, one immutable
perception, endlessly moving.