Ending white awning
And nothing to conflict
Against the conjecture
Fresh windless
Nor a sparrow
Nor a falcon
Nor any geese
Nor contrasting mote
In any direction
Imperceptibly skimming
Pallid smoke clouds
Sighing to rupture
On skin like stone
Shaped smoothen
But refusal to break
A continuum of fault
Moving too fast
And fast forward
There is nothing here
But desolation