Parading

Which of you knows how not to part the pebble on the beach from its colors?

come and go while I stay gripped to pine and the sugar of existence runs through

From now on,

flinging itself forth in winter

As a sandy track-rut changes when called a Silk Road:

Oh swirling petals, all living things are contingent,

If you want to know the correct time,

at the pace of drift

And then he cocked both his pistols and he spit in the dirt

“You can never —”