A freshly painted door set between three brick aisles,
nearby trees have grown away and deformed downward,
no one enters amid various passing glances of curiosity,
in front of a large cracked mirror representing a pivotal era.
Talking of plates and spring mattresses,
thinking of coats and baskets,
tinkering with bills, bells, and silver,
formulating new alignments for another sequence.
Eyes search a sky through a stagnant fan,
breath is both heaved and stunted,
bags cross over creases over arches over depressions,
buttons tighten, tempers heighten.
Searching among wrenches and frying pans,
sounding among batteries and panels,
submitting with bills, bells, and silver,
formulating new alignments for yet another sequence.
Sharwrong's Song 