They are building with envelopes a useless language of spaces. The garment’s lemon skin collapses, like a net captures the mountains. A spray of bullets on the lapel to freshen up the doubting. All along a pinstripe, the pages quickly wrinkled. March moving on roads with the final disease upon the land. A stream of numbers planted low their watery complaint to the sun. Gray with the dirt and ash, an animal changed its name. Meaning time in blood had dreamed like television’s fading halo. A study upon rotten fruit upon a withered hand upon death upon a carousel. To split the ideal liquid into lips and spill its glowing. All alone a bedspring, finely tuned to dissect its own entropy. The last of my strength waltzed with yours until collapse. They are budding within violets a solvency to frost and glass. A planet posted in the mail the massive contents of its oceans and its ponds. March, displayed in time on all sides, the bombed out gardens. An engine in its fetal crouch tells me the story of staying. And sound and candle’s wax and curtains and speaking and silence. To memorize numbers in hopes of breeding with image and lyrics. Crowning the song in boats of light on bedsprings drinking in the noon. They are building nothing in the dark territory of time forgotten. Fade across the page the measurements of mountains captured by nets.