Of parallel lines, at the land of intersection, to stand there I hope.
A wild goose on its back, one of the truck, to have tunble down. Or, with its back to a wild goose, one of the truck, to have tunble down.
The teeth on the geta also, failing to tread on, a black beetle runs.
On pipes, to lean, and waiting for setting sun.
Overpainting on, an urine bottle at the next door, flies floating.