Horizon gone blank.
Soap pond, floating.
Forty billion mutilated filters.
Haiku heaven has shortened us,
pulled us with extravagant blurbs
toward ruffled outskirts
we poach and penetrate.
O, exchequer of ecstasy,
blue dot neophyte,
Elvis of the sidewalk trash,
smoothe the hood grain.
Better mediate ascension.
Along the highway,
implant signs of doubt.
Sharp edges and spoiled soil.
The green house is extinguished,
the rocks printed over.
We must have sundried eyes.