A breeze squirming between houses.
Dust confessing in the ugly-box.
The cat turned to butter in the mid-day sun.

Over the Earth a quiet ascends,
a quiet without purpose or name,
cloud-shaped, with smoke on its hands,
the windows of the world coming up,
then slamming down hard . . .

You see, people crave a little hullabaloo.
They dwell among the dramas of kinesis.
They go to the theatre, dream of other lives,
wear another's expressions.

Once, it was always snowing in our town.
There was a dark breakfast.
Bloodhounds dozed in their kennels.
Goons roamed naked in the railway yards.
Until the Rapture displayed her frenetic charms
and our children adopted interpretive art.

So now everything is the colour of honey.
It tastes like a treasure chest around here.
Glory, even the butterflies are excited.