The near side of the pie.

In the exaggerated light of perigee

 I pitter-patter to the bus stop in my flip-flops.

 The minute lengthening like a fenced-in
pola shadow on

 a lit-up field ... the diamond sparkling, the trees like silent sentries

 I can count on when a truck comes up, its headlights ducking between

 houses with their lights on, lighting
buy electronic cigaretteup the boys in gangs of three

 who toss the football, a joke or two. I speak their language with a nod up,

 the way it ought to be, never down, never chin tucked under.

 We do it right tonight. No forgeries. No rock and dust in samples

 auctioned off. The moon's a base ... or so it seemed ... when was it?

 years ago ... a man walked on the
nu skin hong kong chalked and cratered surface of TV

 and seized the flicker of the future, like a baseball thrown and stuck

 in some belief. A flag planted, light-yeared on what's noble.

 Michael Jackson's Walk not jive hallucination.

 I follow in the footprints, in orange imitation

 of a streetlight. I give all my hopes to seas

 of cold serenity, The Man in Cheese

 or to a rabbit rice-cake-making.

 I take the bus to somewhere on