December 30th, 4:02 AM, in the gutter on the west side of Delacroix, where the street falls two feet over its last hundred and drains toward the culvert at Fenwick. I did not move it. The melt moved it. Three days of thaw came down the channel in a thin brown sheet, and the wheel, which no longer had a shape capable of resisting anything, was carried forty yards downhill and laid against the granite curb with what I can only describe as care. The lamp at the top of the street ran its reflection the entire length of the water like a lit seam. Caravaggio’s The Entombment of Christ is a composition about hands. Six of them, all under the weight, all at different angles, not one of them hurrying. Water carries things exactly like that. It does not lift and it does not drop. It slides its whole surface under an object, takes the load evenly, and never once appears to be trying. The wheel arrived at the curb face up, reflector to the sky. I am aware this is chance. I painted it anyway, and I painted the hands that were not there. Fourth station. Aqua portat quod homo reliquit.
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