An old pond a frog jumps. Sound of water
and the scent of rain. My nose twitches
and lightning strikes the nervous flanks
of commanded horses. O, bay. O, woe.

Fishing, looking at the moon deer look to.
The sound of traffic, and scent of rain.
My nose itches and I do not sneeze
by biting my lip. They turn when I piss.

Starlight, as well as planes; night
and satellite-- They die with me
before they die, like nothing I can
really say, anymore than-- Nothing, really.

Gojira jumps into the chair I do not use,
and sits. And sits. And I go away.