Time had a palace in which were stored

all the ways of perceiving duration.  Standing

in the garden, the master wanted to match

places to agreements.  At the height of this

experience, the emptiness arrived to watch

a shadow meet a corner.  The diffuse line,

lasting briefly, wandered onward into the ink

where the language changed from black to

the colors glowing, related to the scene yet,

in history, distant and untransformed like the

raving in the vinyl.  Needles moving back

and forth brought the image to life, and new

spirits required the discernment.  An

authentic person was following after

somebody else, the great celebrity sitting

on the couch.  Looking at each other, there

was no recognition.  Neither was a duplicate

of the other, and lengths of eternity separated

the origins from which they were developing a

devout relation to the clerk and recorder

who ran the machine with the inmost gears

and leverage.  Impressive as an ability to

slow the world down and heat things up, the beat

wandered in speculation to explore alternate

tributaries and the synchronization of marks

with signs.  Ring fragments and remnants

of other alignments were scattered among the

pebbles in the gravel that defined the archaic

nature of high, mountain roads.  Waves,

under the branch clibing out of the pines, created

a hum in the pliant tires as the wheels where

going around, as the tread was searching for

a grip, floating on the water, serenely.

Firendship calculated a ride upon the boat;

the ripples in the orange were grinding

dust that painted the water making it unreal

and slightly flushed as the sun was mending the

clouds, making them real, forcing change.

Splendor crept into each repple; it became

a universe isolated by the ridge. The contour

was displaced from ancient pressure, before

the storms.  It was a coincidence, by

dismay, as the colors fell over to spatter against

the slope of the mountain, but it was meant to

be only a joke.  The stain was not

tolerable, caused screams into the dark air

beneath the phrases of the moon coinciding with

the spirits in the halls.  Stretching the length,

wholly burnished, the glass was pacing the

wildness of the pictures hanging for a short

while to commemorate a trivial event, observed

and illustrated as a practice of relativistic

coordination.  The subject began to decline

as it became obsolete, slabs within

others, buried and invisible yet functioning

to operate countless links.  There was no

way to move a thought without erasing

the mesh and the entire sequence.  Not funny,

the festival bowed to end the journals

of the ancestors.  These were stored and

conveyed toward an accurate,

natural decision in times to come.