Men were at the end of conversations loosely, hanging in thin air by their flowing white clothes .They were ghosts of earlier colored clothes, monkey caps against the biting cold of the hills.
The caps they donned were of monkeys in nose, for absurd monkey movement, from tree to tree looking for fruit in the cold space of blue winter. They quickly reached the end of conversation.
At the end of conversation hung a monkey cap. The child wore a monkey cap on mom’s shoulder. Moms would go in the hills and there would be dead ends to every conversation, dead ends to every mom.
The Morning is Just a Dream 