I smoke deep through dreams of pursuing doctors in coats sterile white onto paths of flowered meadows with butterflies amber in movement. I hear the hum of bees in blackberry blossoms on green thorned long stems. Wild strawberries intervine the road. Blue skies and white clouds cool, and the final repeat of the crickets works temperature through formula, like lightning considered counted per second so many hundred feet. Printed in the proper black against white, keep the final receipt, something of a trophy dream cast in plaster and bronzed like baby shoes, and memory of such days never escapes mention if its dawn and the aubade.
Cypress surround stagnant ponds.
Scum scours the sky reflected, and the moon, once silver, now grays. I know it different than I suspected. The way to the front is forward so much like this silver train at night with its speech. Engineers echo from the wires of speakers mounted vandal proof above doors that open automatically back and forth like time lapse at the stopping at each station. Once I drop my yellow book off the platform.