Ocean June 20, 2014 3:29:34 PM – 3:31:07 PM

Under the sun, your eyes like Blitzkrieg.

The coffee I am drinking tastes like the innermost of my socks. It was not the fields I came from. The fire. To gather oneself in language, the lawn’s way of being grass.

They turn away from the outer mountains and return to the luminous houses, the noise and their own weird bodies. For every layer of meaning in the stones.