the gray electric mind


was it said

that that man said

once slow and waiting

for the words hanging in

mid air, the sentence fragments

pieced and parted for assembly


such as in the folded gray electric,

generating perception fields ripe for

harvest with swift sickle, like the razor

moon open slicing ineffaceable night, the

ocean wanting- wishing it was thus the

institute evening, making rough copies of

everything even darkness as sea emulates sky

the morning seems forever the other side of a

glass marble- rolling round an inevitable funnel,

finagling dawn to follow all poached like an egg