Holding close to the raindrops, the seagull's shit and moon's damp wit, Mars passes like constipation, on contemplation noting the elation of blood on the roof. Drops falling slowly on the sidewalk in the rhythm of steam engines over rotten tracks, of chilled ball bearings through sleeping backs. So there is one night that never ends, the rest are preparation, imitation, facsimiles of creation poured from baking sores in the autumn sun. Winter waits at the door sucking frozen chocolate, wounded and ironic in the falling snow. Spring's the dream, Always remembered, sometimes lived, tasting of dried mint leaves and absynthe. Summer's bored through geologic remainders of indifference and elation, cold and restored along the bank teller's bible, a fable ending with a rainy park the lame absence of a stork.