Parading

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 —”

Corn Dancers rise in a line, follow my calf,

How good to let imagination go,

Let the mirror explain how beautiful you are!

Not that I understand things.