Buzzards

While you had been sitting in the garden
I observed 
A model of self-deprecation 
Innovation 
Hinging on a lore of happiness.

Thirdly, when you bat an eyelash
There is whimsy here
Almost everywhere a place exists 
That is collapse 
Unearthing different states of solitude. 

Running on a different track 
I remark 
Reluctance to assent 
Precocious 
Coming from subjective memories. 

There is another story of caprice 
It is not you 
Emerging from the silent drudgeries  
Trapped in a basement 
Warding off a place to reason and to sleep.