I know you have said that far enough in the day’s heat and moon’s hiding. In the horizon I looked far enough and deep in the tree’s silences.
The leaves rustled at the night. What can you do again and now unless art has not left here as yet and senses still matter to the mind.
In the hollow of my downy back your after-being remains as refusal. Senselessness hurts in my fingers as though my senses are conscious and are offended deeply by refusal.