Baby Watteau — 
 
The empty sale window closes and I’m on the move (or we are). Early or late, the sky’s not falling as point of fact. Watteau flows like a stripper in spiral. Another pointer in dance, harder to verify. More blessed, Baby’s greatest came early, while someone like Cézanne showed up late. These data still matter, in a manner — I’ve found someone else, deeper in, a thinly veiled version of Cézanne.   
 
The flow is hard to describe — an astrophysicist, a higher up, going blind. Perfecting for a fall. His baby traps me.