We hate a work of art that finds designs inside us better to lie in the fog of melting snow and see the lake that remains and the person who has left, them we would rather not see but do in this reduction. The ruins of December are full of people. Feeling is lost. The melted lake, re-frozen, clear as a picture plane in the public park, drags in its current a bit of duckweed torn at the root, bright-green, but it stops when the skater does and reveals its stasis. Further out, a void that can be seen clearly through this fiction starts the world in orbit around involuted space. Participation is voluntary as the wind pushes a glove and a cry faster through the deeps of sky and cloud than the ear and hand that released them. Now that the ocean is gone I am sail and ship, but the embargo on motion means he can only be thrown away, as in the hour when you were queen. Go to work we tell the child. Go to work, go to work, go to work.