They return to trade

places they come back to play

among wet stones under

the fence along the path, to

fly out from sockets of air.

Not to imagine changes ---

static to movement gray to

dead metallic -- crop

crop into the brightly zoned

animate debris. To look,

to be scolded by a form

on the clock’s deadpan face.

Just below artifice

trillions again arguing for or

molesting the body’s opaque revision.