The frescoed cloister is closed. No echo of omniscience escapes to wind or metaphor. A cottage holds three bowls, earthen and chipped, on a table made of planks smoothed by the surf. One holds buttermilk; another, tomatoes pale as moons; the third, eggs the color of sand. On the sill you would place a globe of ivory roses to echo the dolphin skull beyond the pane, and think how sonorous, how bold, this science of solitude.
From darkacre by Greg Hewett. Copyright © 2010 by Greg Hewett. Used by permission of Coffee House Press: www.coffeehousepress.org.