Martin was born to jiggle and he did.
Soundly he slept on the ultra-soft mattress
of manmade beliefs, making sense
where there was none, and that was fun.
Each of his many hairs sang a number
of when the river was overcome.
The apple bit, the gods conked,
the flickering light captured
the exhumation. Little was outside
the display, which by now had such shine
we beamed like starlight for as well
as we held on, which wasn’t long?
The present didn’t happen
until it was presented. There wasn’t time to plan
who to become. If you didn’t have a speech
you could try downloading some.
Or else you could let the clouds
mean their own thing below the sun.
