half the year is already
run out like a lapse on the cinder pitch

the dust only shifts in the city
the wind in the woods is different every day

no air draft here
just light beams dance down distances

the words in which we speak
already lie sound asleep

all gates torn open
like a traffic victims skull

off the teeth’s white neon light
glances off equally fast to any other

the sun is empty
a frequency on the radio

we can turn every stone as long
or smash to smaller pieces

till sand remains
and never wind