Scintillae Sky of verdigris. Ocean of slate. Threadbare clouds shapeshift, scatter, then disintegrate, their essence gone the way of plans which, once discarded, drift   from consciousness. She puts the coffee on, lights a cigarette, attends the morning denouement, the daily snare of memories that give rise to regret   for what was real: a creaky seventh stair, an ivy-patterned wall, a simple oaken Morris chair, a ceiling crack, a chifforobe behemoth in a hall,   a red Formica table, bric-a-brac, umbrellas by a door, a bowl, a grass-green Pontiac; how beveled beams of gold leaf inch across a kitchen…