We will start with the simple premise
that objects are natural in the suspended
state, and from there
passages of time reveal themselves
to idolaters.
The longing thirst of alchemy
bursting forth, the rush of
birds, a sound, a silhouette,
the man on a hill.
He swings daggers
at flies.
Proceeding forward we reap
further constants.
The earth itself is like
a strange thimble
from which escapes countless days.
Black pearls delight the first passerby.
A song ignites into flame,
a dismal charade rethought by
savage politicians,
the last snow of winter
melts before the jagged sky.
At the next level
the bird escapes the empty hand,
a road covered in stagnant dust,
a cat's eye glowing in a solemn room.
The milk of stars collides.
Nothing is conserved
except the unending task of play-writes
and prostitutes.
