A water enters cold and wet dousing fires, orange in blue ,a sweet thought, a cold wind. A heat in the concrete cement granules vanishes on a parapet to night and a night crumbles darkly. A tree dies, a fruit ripens ,a flower falls its red feet up. An earth shivers down tree ,a sky falls ,the cloud breaks.
A colour flies ,a wind wavers ,an orange creeps up gently .A hill fattens, a tree is blue .A lake streaks in pure silver.
You end up with a nothing ,just a ball of fire in the east.
The train ploughs through the night,in a manner of speaking, as sleeper ploughs through a sleep in the train. Everything is a manner of speaking.
(Sleeper may be my wife in the train but that is not manner of speaking)
Poem words are best allowed to fly off from the rails where the train’s wheel ploughs the night to let off its sparks in manner of speaking, riding a night when sparks of silence fly off a sleep while the train is ploughing the night.
(Like the knife sharpener in the street as his foot ploughs through machine),
Words are sparks flying off night like from knife sharpener’s machine,sparks that do not light lonely nights but are just another manner of speaking.