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Much like a sestina repeats it's hook
Our lovers and idols, ever prophetic,
Sew meaning into quivering arcs.

Desaturating the still, all becomes clear
Unscramble the motion in the film
The cover image foregrounds.

Remove the chaos of every day
Plot points pinned to a story-line
We spin ourselves back in time.

As one song may last a lifetime
Churning the same harmony,
Of the few who never leave.

Worry changes no forking paths
So worry not and sonder still
Time clarifies, distilling all.

A viewpoint in the stratosphere
Changes the night sky forever
Yet, the seasons remain the same.

One prolonged glance into the sky
Listening to this primordial beat;
Here, true lovers, idols and myself
Glide through space eternally.
There will be a totem -
maybe castles are green
in gavottes of sun,
or a sly, sleek-angled bus
by a sky-headed smoker
will make its play.

Yes, we're in a play
about these totems,
where exiled smokers
in a delirious green
catch the last bus
to the sun.

But that diva sun
refuses to play,
& eats the bus.
Ain't that a totem?
We'll always be green,
always casual smokers,

(or is it social smokers?)
flicking ash at that sun,
which is evening green.
In the museum we'll play
among the totems,
catch a line of buses,

& then another bus,
almond exhaust smoke,
until we view the totem -
a saddle on the sun,
a silence in our play,
a voluptuous green.

The same green's
splashed on the bus.
Maybe the best play
for a casual smoker
is to eat the sun,
eat the totem,

then eat the green.
Take the express bus
to another play.
Totem, green, sun, bus, smoker, play

— The End —