wind, the woods' poor relative
goes to the sky's edge to spend vacation
throwing lemons
towards a river of huge rolling clocks

a camera following the sunlight
is like a piano tuning
those tiny deaths'
tone color's pure

writing and warfare march on
between them houses are built
where people sit inside
like rumors, getting ready to set out

quitting smoking is actually quitting
a kind of hand signal
why not say
a word still hasn't been lit