A lone maple against the light has breadth and the dark thin substance of shot up shadow; this is a guarantee
as local time is disguised among skimpy swags and willowish leaves as living structures aspected as abstract in the ‘inner’ harbor of salt glare, cut from coastal space.

Space (within) doesn’t know you’re looking... doing nothing, watching you looking.

Space’s slowed us down to furnace the pace

for full positions in another trace or matter. Earlier or later
we feel snooty, strange, blue-eyed —

it’s about meeting people in a way.