How moving
Away from pure sound
We fade into our ox and plow
Such a fever in our new
And perplexing life
The roads
And our lungs are bad
Finitude splices
Each of us to each of us
In the many shops
All closing at this hour
Tomorrow will be discounted
And another translucent
Layer will be revealed
To be viewed
From different towers
And yet will we finally lose our edges
In rows we are still
Suspended by our cameras
The background runs through us
We speak
To our photo-objects
We must mass-produce
Mirrors to stay who we are
