Shake the receptors from influence
like the wind-blown branch tries...

Hurled air begs on the sanction of our architecture,
reaps the passages like a vacuum
& cleans the streets, bogged-free.

The Sun came out at 2:07 today.
It peaked for a glance
& nonchalantly withdrew the sandskrit.

The shuffled tree hangs down thin branches,
like the hair on the crone that bit cold,
Gnaws on the habitual shade
reflected in its tormented posture
And leans toward the time-clock
everyhour like tarred resin,

Sons of God.