The glass sweats out and
falls by its weight and by
the mountain path, it
is pasture for the moment.
No gain by night in
the passage of rowling
sound: the crystal tube
ploughs up thoughtful
acid lines, is cold.
Up the sloping path to
the kiosk, icy newsprint.
White butterflies in
the sun, dip too close to the
table and the
glint snaps them, di-
morphic marble. We sit
round by the lower
fields, in the sun
light and look out slowly.