Mountains arise from something.
The eyes of mice. The eyes of cats.
The eyes of owls. The eyes of nannies.
Here cubes are combined with a mild battery.
Glances, crabs, you shoulder the code.
The code is switched off and solemn.
That saliva in the mouth.
There motorcyclists circle as if on barrels.
From the shelled helmets with heads,
the sun stings.
Bjorn swims in the lake.
He flashes his buds.