collaboration

Floor like flour-
Disappearing beauty--
Flies engulf us,
while we sit (on our mound) and watch mourning, morning loss.

Cawing.

A persistent bell gongs toward the left:
"This whole thing looks fake."

Cars behind us: Whiz. Roar. Hum.

Still on our pile of dough-
Cotton puffs of cloud--
Slowly they drift,
And away we go into the blue.