It is in the middle of winter-break
And is still worried about timing;
Like a retirement home it would stand.
Joy is not telegenic; its lips curl.
Like a chest filing camera-glass,
This went on for weeks, surging.
We lust all consciousness
But raced on foot till it moved.
In the underbrush like beetles of whiteout
It skips in its CD-R form--
So many more responsible nightmares.