Night's Work, Then Waking

sitting there watching the microwave and myself in it looking from time to time at the time with music vibrating the computer behind me making the world shake this room and this time which is full to the top-mark with obligation and this time in which I glance green words speaking askance at the terminal end and my neck strains around my shoulders bearing all the stress that I have been shoving up there like some beaver damming, beating back the high to low entropy force inside from busting. my imaginary horse bucks me up a ridge and I see it then, a view which was ever beyond, past the edge of the bush-hedge is a field of red arrows cast upon the rusty ground and it’s anachronistic in how I feel up here on this ridge, looking down and outward at a great red basket emptying its blood into the prairie and I am opening my mouth to eat the path it chooses.