Tresses of notville
who never ate the salad
sat in a room with high glass
thick ounces and a bounced computer
complaining her headgear
monocle on a screen
that blinks time through water
basement doors breaking
in the tug of webs
a projector crank
on the fangs of the old animal
a tank that won't blurt
while it drinks lead and butter
a bridge to the afterworld
paved in golden dirt.