in the local rag the tales rattle like corn in a can.
the sky from below is so removed, we call it “ The Sky “
and nobody notices, because it’s too True to be Real.
the stern lamps that gaslight the night vision of dwarves
and Romans, scald the little cheeks of a new black
with their earnest waste of time…
given that the dawn will overtake the night until a star dies
and your letters will be read to flames
as dispassionate as a breeze.
in the local rag your horoscope is a nested loop
surreal and oblique like a sand dollar
for a windmill.

a trojan ghost with
a tea cup full of sparks
and a madness for
a map to
a map.