a Tuesday night.
Book flooded table,
information-engorged mind...
Polar disputes
direct drifting eyes.
The previous literalities and
the latter imaginations.
Paths of words fade
while pseudo-sense blossoms.
Float with tides,
tropical fruits strange but sweet.
Quarter to six-
fifteen on a Tuesday night.
Snap logical fingers
at tracks on the side of reality.
Skip in place
a moment longer.
Return with me now
to the main road.
