lingering aroma of
land
played unmanned final
cinematography,
had no
fade-ins,
pans,
close-ups or
fade-outs
just some horizon routing
everyone,
left as a stubborn
non-coincidence,
forever taking
leave
into the
spring like
pretending orchids
are free in
air cables,
pour-soi
to the foreign
trapeze
from didactic
exit stairs then
segue into
mirror or crazy gold or,
dying into
inconspicuousness, but
be the worst ghost
of etiquette in
monumental ashtrays
