(Photo by Jeff Vier)

She heard a song she hadn’t heard in forever, at least she thought she had, there in the street it had dreamily arrived. It was the pace that revealed her error, how it failed to lapse reliably into pattern, how it weakly absorbed into context; the construction zone around which she walked and the noise of people outside a pizza place had met convincingly in the air. She remembered her uncle knew it, the song, but he had whistled it only; it was necessarily turned, had traveled into him with incident. She tried to remember a record, a name, irrefutable solids. She couldn’t. The people, eating pizza in incredible symmetry, grew immense, sculpted hair, ridges and caverns. Solid geologic ideas in there. The construction beams disciplined with shadow.