In current weather conditions,
this content is only
available to subscribers.

One can wait for the weather to change —
or subscribe now for instant access.

Subscribe Log in

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.