They briskly bounce out of the future and having cried “Futile!”
immediately thud back up to its cloud clad summit.
A branch bends, burdened with birds larger than space-new style,
stuffed not with down or feathers but only with “Dammit, dammit.”
A horizontal mare stained with sunset. A winter evening,
tired of its eye-batting blueness, fondles
like a witless atom on the eve of being
split the remaining hours golden 
chain. A burnt matchsticks residue, a myopic
naked statue, a pergola looming wanly
are excessively real, excessively stereoscopic
since there's nothing they can turn themselves into. Only
horizontal properties, in their fusion, can spawn a monster
with a substantial fallout or follow-
up. For an explosion-sponsored
profile, there is no tomorrow.