Befogged in the slow dance, br both of us unable to sleep, busy br counting ewe, curves over fences, br unaware that morning would follow br its orange hue across the robin's egg sky. br br As if all could be forgiven by our destructor, br or be a half-lit absolution of guilt br for the broken robin's song. br br This obscene quiet, br ravaged by the proliferation br of stars. Everything comes br by accident; loves bypassed br in the plotting, the first telling br of a fable... br br Where early magnets br were shallow streams; br the many swollen eyes of the water br staring up like old stones br through a blurred prison of ions. br br The naive painted unsuspectedly br by the undertaker's hand. br We have won, lost, and now br have stopped counting. br br Our feelings: anecdotal br as a far whiff br from warmer seasons. br br Our expression: a mirage, br rendering the unnameable br as photographs- br br so easily yellowed, br decomposed by air.