The ceiling buckled
under some unknown weight
I carved the grout into smaller lines
that were then beckoned
by a pointing finger

One eye was closed
half a wink later
The blanket of fractals
came down like a machine
trembling and vibrating

The segments came
staggering with each falling level
the light grew opaque
as I pointed upward
and my finger smoked

By chance, I noticed
a painting of England
before the rise of industry
and then the sun rose
behind the clocks
on Big Ben