here at the three penny arcade
wherein grow stranger arborial
esplanades than envisioned by
pinioned dreamers, feather decked
and pining for sure footage, walks
Celine. She is casting ephemeral
spells upon coin droppers whose
hands have suddenly gone numb
from her whiteness. the leaves,
hiho, are falling up, as she, with
quaint pedicularity, disallows
landings. they will fly until they
lunge into the peculiar machinery
of her tilted game. Over.

   

Copyright 2000 by L Pross