with twentysomething vision,
you mourn an unborn moment.
the mist, rain with a faint pulse.
before the deluge, an abortion.
(as if the dust in a SEGA Genesis
cartridge, you blow out the candles).
for the meteorologist, predictions
are that spinning hedgehog, a blur;
he cannot remember the future.
time is merengue, interloping
with you; and then swaying its hips
at a distance, back and forth;
you feel sveltely what almost was.
arsonists, in related news, set fire
to the discotheque in your eyelids;
closing them, pixels sleepwalk through
your cranium and \"dab\" mid-riot.
verses are smuggled, like contraband,
across a border made of screensavers,
made of fallen bluebells; from another
dimension, a shout; \"My name is Legion\".
filtering into the train, the clouds\' puffiness
aped shortness-of-breath; no one is thinking,
amid the screeches, they stop themselves.