When the red chair suspended in air br grazes the top of your head br and the white pitcher that rests on the chair br br neither falls nor spills, you will move br to the window, or the empty space br in the wall left by the guns on the hill br br just outside the city, and be amazed br at the mill ablaze in the distance, br the loud report of dry beams knuckled br br under heat, the carousel of shadows spun br around the orange center of the flames, br because you know this cannot happen here br br or because you know the mill's been on fire br for so long that the city's been consumed br entirely and the heat from the mill br br has blistered the red paint on the chair br and dried the water from the pitcher, br and, if you wait one more instant, br br afraid that it is too late, it will be too late, br and the chair and pitcher will drift br through your hair as ash.