Still Big-Blue circles
His nuclear neighbor, not that any of us
Have ever seen him behind the wheel.

The nausea of anticipation, the insanity
Of predictions.
Scratchy-lead-scribblings, blotted, cramped
Digits.

There's never a weekend to tell you
Or any better way;
it's the polarity that always rends me.

        " Such a wide cast net-- surely
          You'll never pull it all back together?"

Semantics, either way, on this side
Of the event horizon.