We walk, some rush, past the hushful crime scene,
imagining: date, hour, circumstances.
Then we walk on. Autumn is coming soon.
Imaginary leaves will cover it up, decomposing
our memories. Until everything keeps silence
we are inclined to believe in a reason
for our discomfort: eyes that don't collide,
invisible winds, words that run trough
the gaping void in our perception.