Glass would turn back at dusk
To pristine birth form in earth,
Transformed to original form.
A dying sun turned mawkish
And played with its shadows.

A love child of earth and sun
Glass would break shadows
That are in fact broken colors
Without scheme, pure kitsch
Where they violently disagree.

The sun has no problem with
Such a random arrangement.
Nor does a drooling camera .

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