The clock at his desk is an altimeter
How appropriate I think
Spinning round
As the day ticks up
Like the ceiling
For all our loves
Our instincts are stronger than our hearts
Liquids trickle down
Solids soar
His throat
Up his nose
And of course he fumigates his lungs
To kill the creepy, crawly things
Time
In his mind
A straight line on a mirror
Up into his head
You
A reflection
Of the path
A sum total
Something has taken
One path
There is only
The downpour of neurotransmitters
Your face crickling and crackling
Flooding traffic jammed, honking dendrites
Wrinkling and rolling
The streets
In the fast forward century dream
They run red with electricity and burned rubber
For all our talk
Our instincts are stronger than our hearts