- with the breathing? - and smeared,
to a letterbox in clouds with sunbeams
sickly eking through a non-blessing.
Next to me the man with headphones, comical-sized.
What seeps sounds for a moment like Archie Shepp
but soon gives way to the ordinary and official.
An extra yearning to taste snowflakes of grace
is chasing all good gifts out of the moving box.
In the head: A says, I've lost the Sp'rit of Truth,
and B says, Where did you last have it?
The sequence is usual today
and you can count this time's robotic pulse very easily.
Something would have the measure of me, I'm afraid.