I kick the dirt with my clicking shoes
to a tick-tacking racket;
spreading brown specs,
twelve, sixty there are.

Cherries begin to wrinkle,
they fall and look up to me,
charring, spitting pupils
and uneven irises of nothingness.

I counted each click
t'were three-hundred-and-sixty;
it took me a day
to jump and switch sides.

I saw long and thin lines,
odd and utterly mirroring drawings;
t'was today's midday
that someone had finally died.