I can’t help but marvel at the sunlight,
Jaundiced as it is mid-March, mirrored on grasses
And still-bare birch branches,
Its deformed late-winter luminosity
In this narrow hill-flanked field
Just upstream from Devil’s Kitchen Lake,
Is the same as that which squeezes through
The clunky orbits of moon and asteroid alike
To land chilled as a former lover’s fingers
On Pluto’s methane crag.
In a dazed sort of way, I, shrouded in sun
As I practice losing civilization
Here in deeply rural rust belt Illinois
Am a speck in Pluto’s future, basking in light
That will traverse those lonesome distances
The following 5 hours or so.  

Your future awaits at the end of this sentence.
Time travel, courtesy of syntax.
Again, into the unknown future, beyond the line’s
Faux horizon, hoping for a view
To erupt from the drudgery of dutiful grammar
Like azaleas spilling their monochrome marbles
From the fist-tight shadows, you wonder
If the crystal balls will enunciate such a view,
If they’ll include you, the perpetual dreamer,
Though in dreams you always move among the faces
You observe, scattering with the whimsy of dandelion
Seeds into the emancipatory gusts
Of the future, this time in cold front packaging,
That kind of detachment, and you realize
Capitalism does your dreaming for you,
Dispenses in doses, enthralls with doldrums,
And personality is more than just an excuse
But a suit, and then another and another,
According to bliss and occasion—
And, lo and behold, here you are
In the future, reconvening with yourself
Some 8 seconds later, the time it takes to
Pull apart blossoms in love-me, love-me-not prognostications
And the gibberish tarot they leave on the ground.