time is most savage when the queer scent
of the sun points easterly, and you look
but there are of course azure skies yet no sun
drenched washlines and canvas topped peddlers,
bathing out in its light but the moments
are disavowel, no illumination here
where it come from if not the sun, and where did
it go?
i like the sound of withdrawal from contestation
days spent in keen total image and alone
are fine enough,
to reflect on the highest bids to quit life with
lightsome distance.
approbation through neon signs and all things
openly technicolor to bask within.
