After every moment
Someone has to clean up.
Old ideas thrown away
New ones, emerge
Hidden, waiting.
For the street cleaners
of Xinxiang.
To recall the way it was.
Discarded remnants of
rusted arguments.
Litter the streets.
Each blade of grass a
compare and contrast,
a cause and effect.

For those who know less.
The days are painted in
remembered harsh light.
Like a slow passing train
it seems to never end.
But in this haunted twilight,
their are some determined
to look for comfort.
Not to you.