A Pome a Day for a Year

‘The images within capsule five collide, collide, collide…‘
a remembered statement from a time
in which the budding truths and blossoming lies,
wrapped in twine, carried on haunches
by lumbering misshapen oxen
placed their pillars and foundations at the foot
of the future.

Play me a tune, oh piano man, play me
the music of a line parallel,
of a road taken where your craft
sings with birds and shines brighter
than any bulb of idea that might
cartoonishly appear above your head.