After cleaning a ditch, on a heap of rubble, the throne there.
A sponge, flogged to death, be like a wrinkled frog.
Of a balloon, deflating, to take her leave.
The typhoon gone, dried fishes begin to rotate, under nightlights.
After killing all of them, on the crotch of a dog, a red flower blooms. Or, after killing all of them, on grey field-speedwell, a red flower blooms.