45*21

to guess is to only get half
to burgeon, to spring to knowledge
these structures fall around us daily
like pilots of unknown air ships
the tailor crafts the right suit
the wings that form shoulders cologne
if Agnes were God
a cure for human would be tamed
give me another moment to compose myself
I'm in the airport of time
deluded from the pathways of design
the rims of reality are like equators
of moons designed by the mind
okay if you can float on this ocean mass
the tigers keep clawing at the vine
don't find your vice in small potatoes
unless, unless
and then there's nothing and sleep is present
you've cut the lifeline like a spine
and cars drive slowly backwards
through the windmills of your mind