Just lately
when I'm sitting
at the microfilm machines and I
imagine (as I often do) aliens
coming down from the night sky
to ask me about my whirring box
with tiny lines of
intricate nothing-glyphs,
they ask me why I am not off
in some wheel-ship on my way to
the shores of Maine
to watch the sun rise
over the ocean's
rolling lines
of meaning-full something-gasps.
(I have no
goodorevenpoor answer for them.
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