In the pure liquid

In the pure liquid light you look for shapes and faces, expressions to shift your conscience into sleep. The windows inside the courtyard leer. Their light is buried in the more vast light of the softly churning waters from more distant apartment windows over the hills where homes lay empty, neutral. Your eyes race over the empty wet air conjuring her night window, the blinds pried open by a fingertip, the early morning pure blue lighting the entire apartment out of nothing but smoky stillness until long afternoon rays slide through the blinds trying to awaken her, a deep orange with no warmth, only exhausted luminance, bright enough only to shame. But she lays still and disregarded.