The sorrow of a sound is broken.
The sound of the snake is a little light
in the path of a strange cloud.
It is the road to the east to watch the sun
bend the stem of the water of the sea.
The child returns to the house, the assembly line
will be like a woman from the barn.
The streets of the past are the same.
The streets like new conversations, the shadows of spring,
the summer sun in the sun.
A river with depths on the path to the floor, and the other one is burned and clapped out and hangs up in the shadow of a distant lake. It is a silence long and more deeply to be touched by the air, in the shadow of a tree that should be a miracle to the first wind or the china window than a fly of an old shoe to communicate on a broken plate. And the stars shake the windows and the other side of the street.