these numbers on the wall keep scrolling little red spider-like,
crawling on my unobserved arms where the cameras once stood,
when you lay eyes on the picket fence it doesn't make it any easier,
this could have been where you were born but it's foreign soil,
clearly we have walked way too far down to see back up, if there is up,
funny american phrase of being down so long it you know ha ha ha from here,
in the ocean blank without light there is no direction, sound of gills breathing,
if that is what they do, then, are we fish, maybe, and have been the whole time,
what would you do with all the meaningful tv you've watched?
there'd be no one to talk to about anything, burping bubbles and digging the reef,
but, the eight legs bring you back, thankfully, the fleeting script ticking across,
typed in long distance from remote locations in the Idaho wilderness,
have you seen this boy lately? this girl?
have you reported all the abandoned milk cartons, unawares?
walking leads east or west or maybe north or south, if the land be flat and meek,
the red letters are digital imagery, packed tight in boxed clocks sealed with invisible tape,
a mass of unscented cinnamon bone suspending small orbs won't flush down the sink