Grimbeau

Limpid, floating fragments fill mind’s sky,

cotton clouded heavens obscure blue

firmament.

A good boy enjoys a sock on the carpet,

Heavy sighs.

Unmet, unseen life probably goes on outside

(I’ve heard persuasive reports on my radio,

pictures on the shiny electric signs,

indigo screens, and from droppers-in).

How distant is the edge of remote

Anyway?