A Finding
I dream of jet engine streams,
Mayflower propellers, anything
to cut across the azure separation
hewn of pushed-apart Pangaea ,
torn as pantheons once may
have done to us, I could imagine.
But it's not chisled tablet,
But it's not chisled tablet,
it lacks of permanence,
it spills out in thousand
directions of spattering code
in attempted conveyance, the kind
that come through in bored midnight.
And I'm sorry for even asking,
but could you find me in quilted wrap,
at the ditchside, and, indeed, infatuated?
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