I have watched all the ideas die.

Yet beauty remains.

The dancer hides

her scrambled brain

with a fan.

I give her my life savings,

which is easy to do.

The stool turns

like a flying saucer

as I scan the polished wood

for meaning, am glad

to find none.

The lights of strange departures

are warping the dome

of the local sky.

An empty lake opens

elsewhere, filling

a depleted clearing.

Empty means empty of creatures,

crowded with lonely molecules,

meaning not lonely at all, and then,

never having been described.