By Brian P. McLean

Could not find the spool of yellow mound
Over limpid green or under fallow ground
Or brook, gurgling gargling orange effluence.

Man hobbles babyspeak roundabout the midnight streets.
Who deserted the magic of asphalt rivers
That chant the solid blackness with a dust
Like a pointillistic painting, or a dew?

That torments the music spherical clear
— One more sugarcube, dear —
Newspapers block the kitchen sun
A bowl of Kix, orange juice, and toast,
The day, new, yet redundant.

And they’re off or so to seems
A fusillade of horses shot down the track to rumination
of Sexretaries and Corporatefaeries
With magic wands and dreamstuff —
A lunch eternal. A three drink thing it is.

Then the rushedhour traffic like a host of locusts
Cuss and fume their toys of doom
Till evening song is said and done.

It’s lunacy of fallow sounds
Lying still and palely bound
Apparelled in dreams on spools of yellow mound . . .

19 August 1982