A close up of a clock on a wall of empty ground.
I have catched the sound of its fingers, seeing the long stone,
Of a house on a plain. I see the sun in the flesh,
I see the point of the circle of sleep.
The fire is a star of fire, the sea that skins behind me,
Here in a white flash where the sun swings and the dark shadows,
Sparkle and hollow and move again.
The night is part of the black hole in the trail,
Some shame and action will live in bed at evening.
I look into the darkened glass and shake the ground.
Ross Goodwin, word.camera poetic language models
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