wake and it's
not you—just some
meretricious effigy; one more
poltergeist plays a game
of dradle.

the nine-of-five meandering with

it's a pseudoscience, the art
of living.

you spin and
pivot-twirl and
circumnavigate: but you never
go anywhere

this plod-spot of earth
(still salient with footprints) is
vastly, cosmically differentiated
from its yester-state; the dirt
undisturbed but perturbed;

but you? simulacrum hominid, you've
changed not.