The coffee I'll never drink, the morning that will never come.
Défilé of undefiled filles from just about out of nowhere.
Lights change, and looks go both ways.
There's a face beside the handset.
A discouraged crowd imagines money; all smile and shift
under the sharp focus of the satellite passing overhead.

James Brook | Mudlark No. 18
Tune of Wreckage | x, y