The cars disappear past Broadway and
you're not in one.
Each minute
you feel like a new entity.

The theater is playing 'Clone 2' again and
you're not inside watching.
There is no rest, only
layers of discorporation.

A closing cigarette burns in the gutter and
you didn't smoke it or drop it.
Movement is finality and
unaccounting is fatal.

Ore is drawn up from mines in mountains and
you don't run the machines.
Ore is taken in from the senses and
agitated by a thought.

You walk to work at four.
At four, the work starts you out and
that's where you go and
that's what you do and
that's when you do it and
that's just about you.

A man walks in for soup and a sandwich and
to hell with him because this feels good, but
you don't turn him out and
you make as each want does.

The man walks out into a wondrous life,
and it must be worrisome to him,
and no wonder you've made him a sandwich,
and no wonder it disappears, too.

The seconds come and go and are
vibrant and full and you're the least
common denominator
in them.

Each minute seems to have an ironic, excellent death.

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