Robert Verdon, #302, Deep in My Burning Plastic Interludes

I went sailing alone once on the lake

The sail was taut above me in the sun

The wind was light and fresh
Each second that passed was an age

I dreamed of

raising labour productivity by increasing the efficiency of capital,

having visited Salamanca Markets in the Apple Isle

for a vertical garden of weeks on end,

talking as if to an assembly of cricket bats

on the high gilded moors of my imaginary country,

pausing to look about at the trees like cruets

along the baked afternoon boulevard,

seeking out topaz meanderings into bevelled perspex endings:

Janus could not mean more with such glances.