The stones on the windowsill looking out the window It makes the whole room tilted to the cliff The fish live in the wreck are ready to rot into the fishbone Pieces were cut ax Trees still do a practice green fingers Still on the windowsill every storm All the way into the house to rest Like a stone cold light into your Tilt to the starting point for the sea You climb into a mollusk to be watched Inadvertently tantamount to corpse Crow pecking at any time may be Glass magnified the threat of not saying anything A gray eyes staring at your face and ignore you