Sunlight's rays are silver now,
not easy golden as before...

Go quietly then you'll find no barking,
sneak from hill to ditch eyes lowered...

The Moons not your gravity,
no that's just a theory...

She's whispering inside my blinks,
strobe images of wanton'ness...of the 'ess...

The white sheet upon a shape,
limitless in mystery...

I prefer right hand pages
like...

The waters swell from that old tune,
Still...not so much a drop is spilled...

Sanding down streets.
New York...

Steel knows nothing of swimming,
it's not it's birthright or intention...

It's the dullness of the questions,
to which...

My bones move fragile,
they say it's the cold...

Anything to seperate,
though not always about Nirvana...