You wouldn’t know where you are. You take your name—what fate attends,
Where it leads as the ink glues. Mountains spill from icy lakes just like promised on the screen
Next door, the entire fire a moment in excess. Your heat to you is terrain,
Called pleasant, recalled nasturtium. A cavalcade of walnut trees lines the foreground,
Reduces access. When you lie to you it makes you appear weak and capricious
Though you generally get what you want anyway. Glug goes the terrain, you fall into
A dream while talking to you on the computer phone. You are asking a lot
Of questions about climbing and trickery. You could work up a sweat just lying there.
It doesn’t have to mean anything.