Stumbling in the reeds of time,
And the Month rolls out into vibrant meadows,
My forearms lie buried in the swaying grass,
Their seconds beckoning me to sleep,
And I lay down at the day's peak,
A meek hill under the starry expanse,
Month's end sinks deeply into the receding archives,
And the vacancy between rolls up around the minutes hand,
Stored to be laid out again farther afield.