Once as a child and only once I walked into the past time of their making, those godlike ones so unappeasable so separate at one in a tangle of sunlight on the riddled sheets. She lay, open to my knowing. On her belly, bare, his finger played. And the branch of its shadow foundered to a darker shade moss damp and pearled with honey. I closed the door. The time was one o’clock I noted on the garden sundial’s face following its triangle of dark down from the gnomon to the I engraved.