Owls hoot to each other across dusking hills—the medieval whorehouses in Genoa are rediscovering electricity—news of masts spotted earlier on the horizon has circled back to them, which they’d divined already, for the seagulls took off from the harbor walls hours before—still, the whores step out onto their balconies, float up to the blanched rooftops, hoot to each other through rising stalks of stars swaying in the dark grange of night—they’re dreaming of sleeping in silk dresses, bathing in gold florins, myrrh and musk, tracing with inward eyes the moonlit-draped, rudder-furrowed wakes of phosphorous, the billowing sash of earth’s shadow smothering stars, burgeoning sails and masts growing ever-taller, getting closer, buzzing, buzzing, shriller than the summoning bells behind their locked doors, until they get so close those suave ladies glean that most precious secret all those learned scribes and bishops are too afraid to whisper—the world is round.
David Luntz‘s work has appeared in or is forthcoming in Hobart Pulp, Farewell Transmission, X-R-A-Y Lit, scaffold, ergot., Maudlin House, HAD, and other online and print journals. Website: davidluntz.com Twitter: @luntz_david