On Fantasy Meadow
Frames pass through dirty, dusty windows,
We balance left to right, up and down,
Green’s everywhere, in swamps and meadows;
I watch, contemplate and sit alone.
V-shaped flocks of birds sway through the air,
One’s mind can taste the shift of seasons,
Memory tubes are twisted and bare;
I suddenly see perfect cheekbones.
The sun is a fly in Klein’s bottle,
Though you need not rays to keep a smile –
Consumerism leaves a puddle –
I’m pushing pink carts on pleasure’s isle.
What if this imploded in a glimpse,
And fantasies mixed and came to play?
All dreams and fears bring a huge eclipse –
Stumbling imagery pushed on a tray.
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