On Fantasy Meadow

Frames pass through dirty, dusty windows, We balance left to right, up and down, Green’s everywhere, in swamps and meadows; I watch, contemplate and sit alone. V-shaped flocks of birds sway through the air, One’s mind can taste the shift of seasons, Memory tubes are twisted and bare; I suddenly see perfect cheekbones. The sun is a fly in Klein’s bottle, Though you need not rays to keep a smile – Consumerism leaves a puddle – I’m pushing pink carts on pleasure’s isle. What if this imploded in a glimpse, And fantasies mixed and came to play? All dreams and fears bring a huge eclipse – Stumbling imagery pushed on a tray.