The dog comes to Worcester, prepared for inevitable death. Snow falls with a ranch dressing insistence. Those Doritos flavoured with ranch dressing ignite the imagination. All Worcester crowds to ideal. It is a dog, in the snow, that has never been forgotten. What reason flakes from the sky, to bring such ranch dressing, Doritos, and dog together?
Climate changes are carefully arranged in dogma. This dogma creates an installation. Dog is favoured. We remember that a dog, period. More is underneath, but not to be told. It is a variation of music of which, now, as the snow falls.
The dog cannot become. Death is only part of the Town because Worcester is like glory, only in moments made public and useless. Someone plays guitar. It fills the night sky, or the ultimate arrangement of noon, which consists of pizza and dreams of ranch-flavoured Doritos. No one wants that.
The next verse decides our fate. The dog is dead. The cat almost eats a mouse but the mouse knows better. Escape is prepared by inattention. The cat drops all marvel and the mouse times literature to the point. When mouse leaps, too perfect. And while snow falls, people of Worcester control more roads.
New roads were made, ones that equated wilderness with west, east with the rest, and safety as an inconstant philosophic position. Others--that is, other people--satisfied nebulae in astonishing universe but looking up. Still invent ranch dressing and Doritos. Thus falls our logic. Registered, days and weeks, the town hall of Worcester bodes as scientific control.