Sweat drips in the fountain of clouds like a ruffle of bird feathers a gap in the sky is like a pebble rippling on a pond at the corner of my eye the lawn is gilded by the the trill of the birds nesting in between the crowds of high flyers The gap is a pike fish for a herron on a hind stalk lilly pads are hooded like the waters around the sun The shaded entry towards the exit of the tongue He sits like a coffee cup in the hands of waxwork There is a dimming light in the button on standby There is an exit but it is as quiet as a thought There is popular culture in the stream of being interested but bored.