Where are we going he asked the small crowd of about twelve as they stepped slowly dodging clumps of mud in the deeply soaked dirt behind the wooden carriage. It bounced about, throwing itself with every step of the hoove, as the four muscular four legged beasts whipped their tails and trodder ahead, pulling the heavy mass of the stuffed wooden object behind them.
You’ll know soon enough
With enough time
Do not worry,
Enjoy the ride
Dandelions all about if you look closely
Too much mud in my boot
**** all
There goes the sun with every step
Boy
Asking questions
This this this
The troop marched through the greenery, and it browned upturned in its wet state, wetttened by the storms, the grass emulsified

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The waters cold grey groan
Winter spent clutching sand slipping through my knuckles

I gasp Firmament  
In the shoots of green  and yellow tufts dispersed by feathers discarded by birds
Waxed paper discarded by men
White Plastic coffee creamer cups discarded by men
Yellowing earl grey tea bags
discarded by men
Burnt crisped flattened cigarette butts

But the waters wash. Whiter water billowing. Violent diaspora* of white and blues and sweet smelling sand circulating in the circular motion of falling wash.

There is something deeply peaceful about cleaning. The action of putting order to those in which have none if they’re to lie where they lay

Eat the dinner and clean it up
Turn on the light and turn it off
Recycle the plastic, buy more
Sleep awake again
When will we feel finite