It leaves, rearranged to devolve or fade: white flag's molten face, sunside. Not lost but losing. Clouds funeral in gray and gray. How a nude reclines, half painted. What can stop; what can't begin?— processions boxed out, closeted. The way you fold and tuck your words away. Citizen to windows, glass comparison—dixie-hammered, looking down. Then again—one pocket: scarred, slain, sleight, singed. Less like welcome and more like salute—small anthems sung out of obligation—it's all relative. And what you can't quite say correct is moot, just loss— is a rusted nail allowed to stay, is a shadow engraved, is a card from cuff, is anything unnamed: apotheosis, immaterial—to say a lowered flag, scattered cloud—how she's at last asleep. These churning hues, what we leave out from the world.