At dawn the abacus looked tired.
In the evening
it got down on all fours and started to count down.

Didn't get far.

The horse and buggy spied
bees wax and worm silk alongside the road
and made a connection.
The Lotus screamed by making an appalling puree.

The bushes don't like heights and panic
when they think of the concrete
way down below.
It meant so much more
on the ground, leaning in for a tussle with farmer Brown.

The watch lost its dial, then its hands;
When it went digital
unrequited, stubborn sun
finally lost hope
and turned in.

Salim had a nose ring and it started to sing.
The last Pulitzer Prize bard of the end of the twentieth century:
"I kicked out a chunk of flesh to get here
and regardless of what they say,
tear up that tabernacle . . .
tear up that tabernacle of clay."