by Daniel Young


The clock emerges from the alphabet soup.

Perhaps it wound itself.

The color swatches of God:

the sea, the sand,

the leaves, the trees.

Is there treachery here?

Is a pipe a pipe?

Is a rose a pipe?

Both is a word which signifies nothing,

until I give it something to talk about.

Creation. Still wrapped in a veil.

The dreams and wheels

within wheels and dreams.

Where is the master hiding?

The strings attached to us,

have fingers above,

and the story cohesion.


Must the characters enjoy their fate,

and not decide their part?

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