The black heated road, circumambulating
the garden of the tall, well-fed, green grass,
tries to merge into the highway,
laid out to high-speed humanity
and short circuit the sands of time,
waylays a dog or two,
cows, a cow or two,
denuding the transience of the breath of life.
The dogs of now devour the cow that was.
Life comes a full circle around
the death of activity. In-activity, they call it.
The highway, in turn, longs to merge into
the reactionary black heated road, encircling the
garden, where the grass is tall and
well-fed on the ignominy of inactivity. 