The trickery of the sun
Between my eyes
I rustle, hustle and bustle
With them people

There is a tent being pitched, with water underneath it. While you wondered how it floated, I was busy alienating along the crests and troughs of waves. But this isn’t the first time, neither this, nor you ignoring it. I play with colours that are winding up their half-lives. Chrome them well if you may, cause them mountains don’t sway. Why this now? you ask, with that piteous affectionate husk in your voice.

But there ain no answer, there was never one.

A chest of conical shapes of gold
Isn’t enough, the reds grow old.
For I mattered, maybe I did, maybe not
Closing eyes while revolving around the sun. I trot.