Spilt dusk light on the river, silver as mercury. It’s not art until you mention it; not art, I heard, until you notice the ache in it. Every car thunks a loose manhole cover on Main Street. A flagless flagpole clinks its cord. One fat cumulus billows like the great robes of bishops; the untaut screens of porch doors undulate in the breeze. And what goes on behind those doors goes on.