Bird's-eye View of the Tool and Die Co

For a long time I used to get up early. 20-30 vision, hemorrhoids intact, he checks into the Enclosure of time familiarizing dreams For better or worse. The edges rub off, The slant gets lost. Whatever the villagers Are celebrating with less conviction is The less you. Index of own organ-music playing, Machinations over the architecture (too Light to make much of a dent) against meditated Gang-wars, ice cream, loss, palm terrain. Under and around the quick background, Surface is improvisation. The force of Living hopelessly backward into a past of striped Conversations. As long as none of them ends this side Of the mirrored desert in terrorist chorales. The finest car is as the simplest home off the coast Of all small cliffs too short to be haze. You turn To speak to someone beside the dock and the lighthouse Shines like garnets. It has become a stricture.