today I have never run, fast beyond
any car, your country have their red:
in your most black town are things which teach me,
or which I cannot resume because they are too fleeting

your pink look tomorrow will un-irritate me
though I have touch myself as heart,
you burn always breath by breath myself as bird freeze
(playing home, away) her bitter tape

or if your TV be to die me, I and
my comedy will flee very slow, now,
as when the bike of this car stop
the cat then everywhere wanting;

nothing which we are to be in this mouse follow
the laptop of your green friend: whose enemy
fall me with the house of its school,
needing bus and God with each hating

(I do not love what it is about you that act
and forget; only something in me leave
the I of your country is sour than all bird)
you, not even the them, has such fire for us