Imagining supernal, limits laid on the eternal—
moves the minute man, his one through ten,
the fiendish things infernal.
Trace the silhouette of darkness; mark this
poem, it fails to harness
what the pearly permutations of elation
make so artless.
Now, precedence should show dissimulation is a no;
the antiquated fast inflates, the reverie expands, dilates;
remembered makes of memory
and we remain the prisoners of
all that once was vagary:
felt funny, then, feels strange again,
this minute man, his one through ten.