Illusions are ceremonious. Curators and consulates, free from cogs, turn more than two ways; spinning oceans, spiralling above sands. Morning’s nature breaks its wave over wistful political stance, cleansing red hands while drying pillowcases. Winter’s cough bore down, strangling lungs, before summer skies, prehistoric and unburdened, rewrote the score. These cravings are ambiguous. No home to miss, or classify you under pretences and picket fences. All possibilities of present time and place evaporate with the steam of a slow cooker left on high.