Ethereal brew
of our blown up lives:
red scarves replace awkward hats,
dashes of wispy whites,
blue moon in cream cheese

Up above a circular dish
sends a code with long and short
stabs at the universe…..we tramp on
through our last gardens
not knowing why we act like this.
There seems to be no reason
to rush
to catch up to our own orbits

The Hawaiian lamp is of little use