The syndicate of the sunshine sits
and fixes, fixes: the flight of bees,
the tall flowers' cracking quits,
Wind's tiniest crease,
the blurb of birds, the hues
of a hundred wasted whys,
the One transparent truth,
the solid lie, Salvation's use...
until a sloppy strike of clouds
at eve, drops on the fix:
And tumults of gushing chaos mix
crooks/cops, kids/wet skids, wakes & crowds.