Dominions over time construct

escarpments tilting just

upon the middle of a cross

between availability and total

degradation, a perfection

of balance always in the exact

center of the now, such a place

as inescapable of doing.  "Language

dreaming itself": the scaffolding

of what it must reach out to, inevitable

twirl of speed, a top of imperceptibles

invisibly lacerates any shriek

of solids in its path.  The best of hanging

selves are no mere shadow

to such a thought: every perch of wire

strung along the intricate connections

electrocutes its opposite continually,

in the sense of electric and defy

presides sustenance for every

possible lay of land: one angle

must suggest the permanent light

which operates outside all umbrellas,

the rigid rescue of all marks themselves

necessitates a future tense.  It's nothing at all

simple, though the images collect

and vilify, poles and wires strung

around earth like endless crucifixions

encompass making turgid

any act of thought.  And yet another plane

of stretching figures up and out and forth

the justifiable abstract, electrons edging

beautifully away, struck by their own

volition, so indices recede untouchably

not in forever, construed as a limitless

sum, but simultaneously, that very constant

reigned over by the repetition of usages,

a perfect compass of lines that point

to every inch of time that can be surfaced

by an immortal horizontal and a vertical stop.