There are shadows, but they are nothing other
Than the preservation, the hiding of your face
From the tearaway sun
Ornaments and pictures but they are nothing
Other than a receptacle for our outpouring
Eyes behind our dark glasses
Clocks, but time is nothing but here and now
It is gone, and here, now it comes again
Without any life in the stasis
There are widescreen televisions; nothing without
Electricity, or the creativity of the artist
Along with the emptiness of the audience
