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.