A pinnacle of green bulbs
forecasting glass
above the stone clouds.

Tapped-out electrical outlets
echoing through the ear hairs
of a million fucked customers.

Screens with their nude frequencies
carving out the forehead's
third iris.

Tides in a hall of red lights
surf's whirlpool of dirty mirrors.

Sap's rage and its tomahawk light
splitting the tunnel's end
the open dark of space
and its funnel for fettered language.