The words my mother laughs at sweet field flowers grabbed with an iron fist without fear or nettles to man cover the horizon relics buried with a trowel in the concrete short breaths. Objects dissolve gadgets pile up on the beach a flag flaps its opprobrium the capsule pops in the vestibule of the dying the dog precedes the man the man precedes the soul the day is fading a face pops out like a postcard the shepherd's bag full of onions and dignity to display by the river fresh watercress with a little music without omen but all overhanging the black hole of the past. 293