No use arguing with anytime minutes,
With hardboiled detective fiction,
With monochrome fascination watching
My stiff objects sprawl into the breeze.
Black as night behind the mirror, eons
Huddle-up and make a wide fan,
Like an old fashioned musical finale
Or even a rose. Morning dreams
Are stranger, like feedback loops,
Than the simple signal to noise
Design of a fantasy life. I meant to write
“There is a thread,” but instead wrote
“There is a threat which joins that world
To this.”