In ordinary language there is fracturing we can hear, serious dischord in the lyre, like hammering that makes gold foil. It will be a lasting name in the moon, in the paint-by-enamel autumn, that shall tarnish the memory. Close your eyes, move about in the real, and pass your days blessed and wrapped up with chimes. The clock of your life has brass all over it even as your sundial stands in the cold wind. You could denote the breakdown of good days and be the answerer standing on the edge of your blood, merely writing of trees.