Glue here on the dotted / line of body or palimpsest / which is a Frankenstein / corpse of sorts The fine / crease of a Xerox’d sheet / doubles over in finality / black ink black black as night The / smoke billows from the chimney / and expects everything in return The crackling / of a fire on loop embedded / into webs-dot-coms feeds off / the grain of time The sand dunes / wait for the dung beetle to pass / before reshuffling their position Man / is no more a genius / than the soil