An Unwanted Pause

1.

Today, at half past noon, the historian was punished for surveiling the growing system of governance that segregates languages of all varieties of round and long Sleeping Fish in her washbasin.

Though the creaks of cats and pigeons fixing bodies onto each other all night on the facade behind the neighbour's house consistently gave cognition to her ears, undeterred, she pasted together her concentrations for four recurring days on her chair and table in the bathroom, where she staged an expansive concert of bees.

Alas, this systemic approach to note-making was halted today when the historian was brought to the court on the terrace and proven guilty. The historian is out of the house now. The historian is reclining on the terrace.

2.

On the cement fence

where she lies

in the shape of a stream

she sees bees hovering

below dirty clouds and

turning into fireflies at dusk,

fireflies that splash on her papers

as bright statues of amoebas

and dry off

when she rolls back her sheets.