It is the technology of the cricket thattakes me on a donkey run across a folio
coughed up in Shakespeare's time with
rubbed edges and shavings from dead
furniture near the door of an opium
confession cradled in the hands of
a Chinese empire driven to a teaching
moment when bears sleep top to bottom in
a rudderless bed with assassins cutting
into the waterline measured in red
petals from ancient roots bobbing beyond
warm hills where herdsmen are enamored by
long evasive pursuits down a thousand
miles of gullible getting low on glow and
glitter in the bloodshot eyes of salvation.
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