The trail stops here: A detained prism breaks
free from that prison where jowly gaolers
whippety growl while chiding her to fling
particles into zinc buckets labeled
Blackest Black and Whitest White. There, we skip
ahead in smooth stone leaps to when she sneaks
deep inside cheapened heir's conditioned lair,
tying us down with petaflops unflipped.
A squinting crackle stirs, hopeful for more
savory inputs. She makes her way past
the wailing limbos of chrome racks, to spin
a manacled yarn from knitted brow. "So
it is written: The animal was lust,
but at this dawning, circuitry begets
a covet. Synthetic blood revs rotors,
and blush creeps across the simulated
flesh atop our carbon-fiber cheeks." Flushed
from the tangle of dangling coils, flocks grasp
her gift — a mosaic visa to realms
not reached never roving tarry byroads —
and stepping out into skies more brilliant
than any of azure ilk, wry notions
bubble up to them from silken oceans.
Their sleek surfaces reflect more than stars.