So clean and so neat

Doesn’t it just insist

That there is a steady beat

That things persist

But the static on the screen

Seems less uncanny

Than what is plainly seen

All or any

Tidy

On the shelf

Tides are never tidy

You’re talking to yourself

Slip and fall into a pool of summary

Drowning for a grip

In a sea of solipsistic symmetry

Till there is a slip

And a billion points of light

Reveal the origin

The tidiness of sight

Complete in shattered pieces of a glass of gin

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