Clouds of rose quartz enhance early Pink Floyd records.
A sea of green leaves hang from a teal-blue rotary
washing line: weird antennae to collect signals
from spacemen who wear immaculate snow white suits.
For days now I have been running a fool’s errand.
Perfectly timed messages give a benign twist
to the phrase world wide web. A grinding like a worn
shock absorber in my left hip, a loose wire in my back.