Sliding through the narrow alleys of wrappings and bits and ends

all through the streets
where the goals roam like
artificial woodworms or ants
without armadillos and awake all the time and gone through all

sliding all across the narrow alleys of rain drops
I look at the lines on my palms
they look like stolen tree lumps
and all what is left there doesn't
fall into a place
seemingly

and then again I smile to myself
all this under constraint of temporarily surge
waddles consciously as the fish hook
retried
and now retired
dormant with dreams
utter alignment with the fishes that
roam
all through streets
unafraid
dreaming the obvious dreams of power
and celloing the hammers

sliding across the narrow alleys of a whim
I look at the humidity on the tree barks
and frozen lines on the lake
becoming one with this waiting
which is never passive

while there is presence of ...