The tiny white flowers tied together, thrown in the garbage. They look for a minute like the new ones picked and drawn against a neck, someone touching you with flowers as you stare. A slow representation of a constellation dying. The hours pour on clean, feeling light, showing cobalt and salmon and emerald against a gray background. I want a moment like that. Putting down plates, taking up a rag, a soft encompassing block of time, earth opening its surfaces. He said by an arroyo, by the light of a fire, they had seen red eyes they couldn’t place and so they ran as far as they could through the dark. Their gaits wasted by empty sky and a farmer at dawn. All that sun’s gotta hurt. Friends full of tacos have fallen asleep in empty cornfields or the living room by wastebasket and empties. Ceci, this seat is nothing like a swing you have to jump on as it comes by. Sky shirks one thing, the water mutters both banish and freshness, the rocks can take the constant rub. Kinda young for such long beards, the men in the field. The earth forward and forward edges up in cornflowers and asterisks and rows of horse fence. The sounds you can finally hear when you stop ploughing the acre in these lace voices.