I stare out the window and see
I can't hear you anymore.
My hands have gone tender
And spill out the air-vent,
Green as a bird at the bottom of his grain.
You strain to make a final effort
But expire, poor wretch, into education.
I have grasped the hidden warmth
Of a clock vaporized to my chest.
How heavily this not weighing upon me weighs!
Suddenly I open a chair.
Let us better loudly speak
Of the things we won't hear
About the coming week.