There is a giant moving sidewalk 

slithering through the countryside, 

leaving bits of seeds and giggles 

to fall among last century’s circuitry. 

Men cut perfect toast points 

while women harvest their own eggs. 

As long as there are doughnuts, 

the children will be fed. 

We hold our truths to be self-involved 

while across the ocean, 

the queen’s raven is missing 

and there is an abundance of bowing. 

The old ways are so good in retrospect 

– like mashed potatoes and masked balls – 

but it’s a fine line between Eden and 

chaos and we willingly try both.

It’s eggs and muffins and bacon and juice

and potatoes and pancakes for dinner

and I’m looking at the bubbling

smelling the cooking imagining nothing

beyond this room

except tea later

when it’s clean and all is away

when stars begin to show through the veil

a light winter wind moves the brown limbs

on the tree dormant not far from me

as I sit dormant but aware

of distant blooms and grand schemes

that may or may not ever happen.

The ceiling was made of cheese

but he wouldn’t look up.

He missed the elephant boarding a tram

and the winter birds gliding

along the frozen bird bath.

He heard her singing

about green hills but didn’t know

it was for him. The floor showed him

where to put his feet

but not where he should go.