Mismatched shutters sway oily-squeaking. Red curtains perform spectral dances.
‘A fall.’
‘Sir, a victim of Newtonian intellect.’
A victim, still, among victims. His body is autumn. The leaves swirling are fall.
It is the saddest landscape- a jawline sunkissed like a forest fire. Split lips river blood like biblical wine. His scalp breeds a barren desert.
Paint spills from the scaffolding forming sentient patterns. The shutters hang unfinished. One black. One white, waving surrender.
The medical examiner arrives, observes, departs.
‘Take the body.’
‘Sir.’
The gurney wears a body bag like nun’s habits.
His deflated skull disappears within the black.
The house is newsprint. His blood deoxygenates on the walkway, unblessed.
The curtain red is straw-sucked from the fabric.
The shutters. One white, Eucharist. One black, a raven flapping atop a door.
‘Sir.’
The front door. The tree trunks. Everything is black.
Sir.
‘Yes?’
What do you see?
‘A fall.’
What do you see?
‘Black and white.’
What do you see?
‘An inkblot on white cardboard.’
What do you see?
‘What do you want me to see? Whatever you want me to see.’
I want you to see what you see.
‘I see a fall.’
Do you see shutters?
‘Yes.’
Do you see shutters?
‘My eyelids.’
Open your eyes. What do you see?
‘Unfinished shutters.’
What do you see?
‘Something. Something made of nothing.’
Precisely.
