It was on a day that never dawned,
so we wandered timeless drifts of thought.

First met the famous farmer of Ishtar,
renowned for planting crops of despair.
He said his turnips traded places with dreams.

Then there was the bureaucrat from North Clarendon,
nicely tucked behind his files of imaginary fisheries.

Formal invites crave solitude, he mumbled,
the emptiness too cumbersome to manifest.

No roads leave the village of Cheerful Misapprehensions, indeed.
The valley sings of solitary chirps,
reek of misplaced laughter — ancient whispers unfulfilled.

When the tin can refused to build a river
my conversation with it turned descructive,
and nearly obsolete.

One lady sharing tea under asteroid-lit sky
told tales of eternally deflating soufflés.
"Was it not luck to sip the tangible void?"

Their cats still dance backwards every equinox,
Michigan maple syrup holograms stream
gallantly—no guide or virtue in the fog.

Yet here we dwell untethered, unaware of all choice,
buying tomorrow from unnoticed shelves.

And when the sun never shines,
perhaps you'll stop by again?
Unspoken powers hang in the air of hidden orchards.