A Ryan Clark is a tree made into a clock 
made to fantasize about sawing. A flood 
set to radio at one end of a garden hillside.

A monster is time, a term in heaven.

I attach one end of the hose to the machine. We have not yet made friends with the exhaust pipe, not yet made friends with the east 
rising tomorrow over a car. The other end hanging you the same as I: from the sun 
roof like a spectator of this snake hissing.