Ahead, starting from the far north, it wanders.

Its radish-strong gasoline fumes have probably been

Locked into your sinuses while you were away.

You will have to deliver it.

The flowers exist on the edge of breath, loose,

Having been laid there.

One gives pause to the other,

Or there will be a symmetry about their movements

Through which each is also an individual.

It is their collective blankness, however,

That betrays the notion of a thing not to be destroyed

In this, how many facts we have fallen through

And still the old facade glimmers there,

A mirage, but permanent. We must first trick the idea

Into being, then dismantle it,

Scattering the pieces on the wind,

So that the old joy, modest as cake, as wine and friendship

Will stay with us at the last, backed by the night

Whose ruse gave it our final meaning.