You were collecting the
clocks, to stall...
The póetique listening
to the reason, as foggy...
Standing on the bank
of a little lake...
The plunging line was?
going deeper, cutting close to...
Scratching the rusted face
of the dust storm...
The pungent smell of dry
smoldering leaves, greet you...
The upbeat moon
becomes dazed, when you...
from a car window
chips are thrown to the beach...
Coming over here
to find me, in abstract meaning...
Doing nothing, for no
obvious reason, engaging...
I see you everywhere...
I miss you in the fall of Winter...
The puddle always individuates itself against the...
even the rain constantly increases the puddle...