Atoms of an Apple in the Orchards of the Mirrored Image of a Mirror

Underworld of Anonymity.  The Library is a Museum 

where the tourists race down Boulevards of perfect Wisdom,

Marcel Proust cartwheeling like a Diamond

towards the Pentagon of Heaven, a sacred denouement 

that lends itself to Psychotic Ideation, the same way the 

Skull Tattoo 

on the Orderly's Arm in the Madhouse

leads the Lunatic to think he might need to be 

a Messiah, 

just as the medication kicks in and the man in the next 

room begins howling like a Televangelist whose Television Set 

has fled the Planet on a Whirlwind of Transcendental Paranoia

and the Earth is belching cosmic vampires up 

from the Suburban Ground, ten thousand alabaster angels 

wandering the sky on feet that are winged by the roses 

that rise from the dust in the summertime ground.

*

On the cloud, they have designed a Secret Apparition,

rolling across the sky like a Dolphin,

eating nothing but the Rain, swimming in the Light against 

all logical entropy,

in Switzerland where the Swiss are sleeping

in nested regress,

the Clockworks of Zurich 

turning around in rhythms that were calculated at the 

Beginning of Time,

when Descartes was dialoguing the curve of his skull

in a Bathroom Mirror somewhere in Ulm,

and the Angel appeared and mentioned something about Scientific Method,

under that same tree where the atoms of the Apple 

that one day would become Einstein's breakfast 

were whirling, 

oblivious to the memory of God,

on the edge of the City,

which is everywhere and nowhere at once.