Sun Stream

The constant confluence;

elimination of the thistle bushes,

licking up the side-storm gates.

Wood burnt magnetism;

tastes of crumbled al-u-min-ium

crinkle and popping POP rocks.

The sunburnt ground blushes black;

the grass is dead.

The cat is thirsty.

The air is empty.

The map leads back;

and back,

and back.