There is nothing like the moment of transition,
From the flickering interior
Of the place I work –
Where reality itself
Seems as though it could be toggled
In a single motion,
Deactivated at the flip of a light-switch labeled:
‘Warning: don’t turn off!’ –
And out, unexpectedly,
Into the prehistoric empire
Of the thunderstorm,
Where despite the growing import
Of an industry of explanations,
The emperor still retains
His wild anthropic breath:
The air that sparks
These eerie, contra-zoom effects,
Whereby the colours of the world draw close,
But meaning sinks
To strange electric depths.