Windows confuse the wind into a place that is thirsty.
Clouds are drinking beyond white glass.

How a hand is fixed above what is thrown away.
As if the imprint was exact as the shadow.

We play in the spaces, when the world looks equal.
But we've forgotten what chorus is coming.

Beyond the quarter's green dark, old machines watch us down.
And we wish we were up and light.

Disorder inside the landscape eats away.
A tide sucks at the pale blue edges.

It's a bit like the end of the game, or the season of plenty.
There's a mark up, or were the goods shoddy?

Now, conversations are throughout and the losses are reached.
As if there is hope in the known world.

Doubt is fifteen minutes, when desire goes over the place.
Someone whistles in the space around the outside.

Work abolishes the moment.
Idle now as god.

The district scene notices when the miles are drawn up.
There's a link to an orange horizon.

Shout inside quiet, lines and clay tones.
Wheel out the shape of these words again.

My nerves are as well as water.
My skin shakes it off.

Some electrons come on guard for the area in us.
There is an agitation within the walls.

Those old machines still in a row, friendly, strange, lubricated heads.
Welcome aboard all that rust!

Write words over pits, on body, in world, into someone.
Have no regrets about the dark.