It seemed there was a reason In the clay because of things we did. The ground was moldy with reasons As with wordy worms. The sky burned blue because. Irrelevancy and vanity Vanished vanquished in a hush. The magician of days, Svelte in becoming blacks, Educed only His own gloved, whited hand From his mysterious sleeve, Nothing more. Chiaroscuro clouds Meandered meaningly Their grey, unsignifying shapes.