Stony-eyed
meets beady eyes and
match, latch upon,
as masses move on.

An undying champion:
Set. Game. Won.
In surveillance, unblinded by sun.
Done.

For that dreamless state
is become stateless dream,
then dream of state, slate wiped clean.
One.

Staunch with practicality,
perched, its practically eternal praxis
That rain makes good
– – flying buttresses! – –

Sitting, spitting…
While flitting
Round and round and round and round,
Birdsong…

Here I sit. Sit with me?
                       You can’t.