As photons whisper by, tending bar
for those who can match pace,a laser-ribbon man
lowers himself to the four-walled sunrise.
Now and then, time licks back and forth in
a mobius tune writhing above
him as he drinks and waits for his drink
to be handed to him.
The wolf crows a thin growl.
It is said, "All that he cannot do
is whatever he has yet to.
His ever-instant orbit,
his finish-start,
his slumbered record-breaking
and swallow sip:
What could he be up there
If not worth ignoring?
After wires antiquate,
after the heady air stales,
the apes will walk halfway aboveground.
Plugged in but implants. Connected by space.
Someone raise a toast: If he saves the day again,
even the day-saving ice clinks
will be a story our grandchildren,
already opening tabs,
had predicted."
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