underneath the bridge where the trolls eat goats and the rays of the sun are rumored
to be Pisces and the world is an odd duck, galumphing along beside the other world
you’re actually in.
there are songs about the territory but-
no melodies to remember
them with.

we sleep through the screech of time
and canonize the raptures
of our complete illusions.
born in a cage of open skies
and cul de sacs… we depart from our roots
to sprawl amid the vanishing and -
all waves of endless
deep.

Like
a speck of dust on a lens
is a ziggurat
to a lens
cap.

and a condor
to an almost
Life.