some field recordings
no pomp, no anxiety,
no apocalyptic drops
machines to a low sea
of hearth and home

cluck of a person's tongue against the
roof of its mouth
your bike commuting

sound of rain comes into the mix
a great sweeping synth sounds like
an air conditioner is turned on lights as
a sketch of glass

thirty minutes
frequently sparkling
no hassle
he said
he had tried to search for it
but could not find anything

it is a place in all of us
where a skyscraper,
where sunsets burn in bright red and white