And the obscure observer takes a note. They have banished the death rattle, the rhonchi, the rales. We die elsewhere, of something else. And do not call it a dream. Fool's gold folly.
Crystals slouch out of matrix.
The dead sunflower almost blocks the sun Like an old poet, an empty eve coerces us Like an old fate, the gods are dipped in water and predict Man is red dust, let there be flesh. You do not see the charred soldier, only pleasure. We have done away with all noise, but the agony of respiration. And autumn will be the flag of that new nation. Out of being split in two comes me and you.