Who’s to minister the repetition of logos
or conserve the limits of voice in the glide
toward afternoon? Into the revolve goes an alignment
stars, priorities, the highest commissions. ‘Reality
is somewhere else’. Pale green bricks glowed at midday
the handiwork of winter is foiled in the machine.
How would you pick up stakes, the degree of grain?
As if time causes money, yellow internal walls, bedrock data
a glint on the window. Timetables for the end of the world
as we know it, are continuous, as long as it’s written down
near the bottom line, the broken one. (Have you or have you not
delivered?) Interests are driven by internal or mixed-up confusion.
So there’s too much of almost nothing
while a centrifuge is humming — the risk is the outcome.