Who run the darkened world
but vendors and customers?
Fanfares come over the treetops, theirs
their writing carved in stone.

Am I assumed to go to market?
Then turn back my muse, my genius
my unbelievable guardian angel.
All turn grey as the speechless ones.

Who, spying, run from tree to tree
as if their shadow isn't perfectly clear?
Exemplars all but eluding me
meanwhile I have a good stab at them.

Am I able to forget- can anyone-
a life dreamt and seen no more?
Nothing would be better than...
but second thoughts get there first.