There he stands cold at the sunrise window;
Soon warmth will spread over the tops of
Trees steeples barns fences in the form of
Shadow travelling swiftly with the cloudy
Wind; collage delirium, to think of the
English landscape here, where there the
Mottled purple of the hot range stifles
Everything in sight and the man-with-
The-gun, resting his plump pink hand on
Black metal smooth as liquid concrete,
Sways forward in milonga-like movement in
The rosy evening; meanwhile the shadow,
Criss-crossed like a Paul Nash landscape,
Establishes right-order-in-the-world, here.
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