Maybe
Einstein, sleeping
back in the
last century, dreamed me
in 2018,
abandoned—out here,
where the
woods meet the city.
Though they seemed perfect-
ly detached
and helpful, each of his small metal
ovals of thought
over time, formed these
linked chains of facts,
which now constrain my head,
holding me back
from bowing low
to drink
at the moss-shielded fountain
form which
nonsense is gushing,
in endless flourishes
of formlessness
and lazy adherence to relativity
which moisten and
glisten across these
terrible rings of metal—
giving me the shivers
and keeping me
from sleep,
despite the deep
night riding
in on the the cool starry wind—
and accelerating
out into the strangely
ill-defined distance.
