sitting on a balcony,
   listening to sparrow songs
mingling with
      an old man's memory:
that vague form of
cinema...
    eating May cherries
   shooting their pits from an
index-thumb gun at metal
objects...
    missing the sound of rain...
digesting 100ml
of *****,
   rolling sweet Virginia
tobacco...
         attempting to
      look disorientated,
unimpressed,
                           feline...        
  as if:
      demanding to find
a summary of all this,
bound to a, yawn;
    ever the wish,
    to have been born
            yesterday,
fully suited with no
argument concerning
a precursor state nearing
tadpole...
        how does one
even begin to formulate
a receding
       consolidation of
a former awe?