What shade of harpsichord, fabric or ingot of elision. As time spills its coffee, I mutate through forgetting. Each day’s percussive blow, purple with cliché, dying. How to flutter, lavender with metamorphosis. There is no subject in the bushes, maybe glimpses fragment into the finger of sound. Into the instrument of forgetting, as I spill time’s clichés, each second, the flower’s finger. It doesn’t touch me, though I know its fragrance.