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The amoeba flows
like a dirty river
somehow murkily knowing
how to fit around the
beating stentor
that tries to suck
invisible drops of
life even as
its own matter becomes
a bubble in the amoeba's
thick water.
.
The stentor that
looks so real, transparently,
next to the amoeba's nothingness
finally escapes with visible joy,
clipped, with only
its beating head remaining.
.
I don't know what I am learning.
I wake long enough to watch.
.
The rocket is tied to strings of time.
The watch guage ticks off on the bottom
as the blazes rage and stop and the
time-lines precede the moments of cheer,
on its way, dividing and sliding along
the tracks of distance and moments.
.
I don't know what I'm learning.
It steals away my night.