Margaret B. Simon


I never tire of these vacations
breaks possible only in neural space
matings in psychodelic phases with
synth-glimpses of fanged eagles
and toothless wolves.

You turn for an embrace before
inevitable departure into Real;
wearing suits and holding shields,
the standard wolves and eagles come
to dress and take us back to work.

It is a curse of differentials,
defined only by what is within us
toasting with fine wines instead of blood,
observers in temporal terms of
crickets, ticking clocks, mortal refuse.

Dreams beyond the street-talk and faded promises,
For in Virtual, we have so much less in common.

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