Little boats are not supposed to hold glass screens that reflect an atmosphere of shifting humors but I sit and stare at a little glass square that cannot hold the moon with silver dust and then nothing and a thousand other things like the dark side of a book or the dark side of canyons that never form full lines of sound that are so deep that sharp eyes cannot hear the kindly mountains of small stitches that line the insides of rims that hold the scent of breathy eyes and I cannot hold the vapors in the little boats because They do not seem or seem too much to be anything other than a blister of unheard pebbles that quench water with the palest green and denote a system of change that never comes and They are like planes that are stuck to people that are stuck in their chairs and in their rooms that are Transfixed by fixed geometric planes of glass in every unperceived angle that tell them that they are just chains in a glimpse of sunshine after too much washing of the hands because this is too much to eat at a full table and because I am not too full