Dead Gallop by Pablo Neruda — Read

Like ashes, like oceans swarming, in the sunken slowness, formlessness, or like high on the road hearing bellstrokes cross by crosswise, holding that sound just free of the metal, blurred, bearing down, reducing to dust in the selfsame mill of forms far out of reach, whether remembered or never seen, and the aroma of plums rolling to earth that rot in time, endlessly green.

All of it so quick, so livening, immobile though, like a pulley idling on itself, those wheels that motors have, in short.