The Web
by dan ankers
Agents of time and space and whatever may have. Across a giant screen of meaning that has none.
Where I sit. Where am I at. What is it?
Distortions in space-time mean that meaning it has one.
Smudged and distorted
though reported
ed
Dead and again and again and again
Angular
this vessel
though still soft and circular
Don’t mean to correct rum
I mean that’s got to be
Um
Correct me if I’m wrong
But I couldn’t stay long
In this universal impudence, so socketed, limited
Don’t mean to finish it
couldn’t quite if I even tried
so denied
Slip and slide down the rear-view
In torsion for tear, blue
between the horizon
forgotten and near to
My glass is half full
of a radiant stew
of greens and just blues
and hooligans too
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