I’ve had the ice chandelier installed, the installers, too, are ice; on ice. I sit
beneath it reading a roaming woman’s words, she writes of the mystical nausea
between dreaming and waking. My tiny chiffon hat, a leek-green bromeliad, reluctantly fitted by Seidler with nylons and wire, plunks and plinks; is architecture cocked
for restorers and frothing aspic frogs; Delphic and plangent as hailstones,
John. Snugglepot and Cuddlepie identify as gamine; with Hepburn and Caron. Skippy looks concerned and dismembered. P. L. Travers adopts me. Nick Cave asks Skip
about the Glass piano in the archive. Geoffrey Rush walks through Lear’s storm
soliloquy in a porkpie, walking a small saltwater.