We held to the bone
of fact, while the
marrow escaped our
grasp, and the seasons
spun out of the radiant
center of the pupil,
falling into the lexical
gap, a lyrical trap,
the black shoes march
the narrow boulevards
of oblong markets
and obsolete tram-cars,
and flittering past
the light of the stars,
the apex of andromeda,
intertextual dialogue,
winking glow of CRT
labyrinth, a mobius
horse-shoe of shifting
luck and hyper-
real radio waves,
resonant antennae of
lucid metaphysic, an
oriflamme of unchecked
desire, a forge
without fire.
Of order, and fate,
chosen, of words
thought - not spoken.
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