From the East a time lapsed tide herds bison from one corrall to the next. Breath in breath out. Rivers quicken streams and sink holes. Station to street to station. Eddies, walls, hurdles lights stop start, trickle. Warmed stone and empty steel cases filled with life. Pupae of untransformation.

While automatic weapons guard hot air, a piece of glass rises on the tide submerging castles, a flood of funds in a desert of belief. Naked Indian beans lean on their braces waiting for the next moon. Breath out.

It is the summer of this winter day beneath baubled peeling planes barking the colour of their remaining leaves. A velvet drink to quench unswept airwaves.

Butterflies wrestle from bloom to bramble. Their day is done before the tide has run. Past this fading facade they will fly again.