Poets

The shining mist already outlines shadows. We pull up the water right to our chins like sheets, so ripplingly cool and fresh-starched,

No entrance with flourishes needed to occur. Of a vanishing point no one knew. Everything just swiftly got smaller in the calmly spread-out realm

What on earth are we doing here, we do not ask ourselves as long as the jigging of tunes keeps coming from the speaker cabinets, hanging