Treat poetry as a meddlesome link to that part of the transit authority in charge of lightly tapping a door before entering. Then open the door because you hear a bass solo over rock floors and a ceiling the height of long shadows. Drum solos fade into doctor’s left hand. Waiting expectantly provides a door form of window, which can then needlessly be filled with music. We are not gaining on the sun but a simple sentence; whenever will one appear? Endless refineries darken skies that were once sulfurous but got over it. Politics, aka Shemp Howard, studiously learns Paul Ryan. The moon was glad to see the last glade on earth.