A close up of a clock on a wall of four o’clock in the morning.
I am not so strange and will not delay.
The room is blown away from the door,
And the stones are beginning to shine.
The silence is hardly final.
Somewhere in the street I can see the trees begin,
To rise and fall and for the light of the dark thing above me,
The blue of the house is like a stone.
The dream is a shiny black hair, and the sun is like a dream.
I stand up and watch the sun shine on a single day,
And the sun is a chance to accomplish from the springs
Of my own delight.

Ross Goodwin, word.camera poetic language models
02 06 17