he thinks fluorescence
might be a blizzard,
and snow angels could be sculpted
in the drifts.

the only escape he has.
it lunges out of the delinquency
of his Id,

disrupting
the algorithm of the actuarial,
turning the straight lines from his pencil lead
into jump ropes.

his only dream.
the rest of his head dull.
tonnages of pig iron.

what happened
to the lincoln log spaceships
a cub scout built?

disassembled and restructured,
columnar now.
pinioned by a lattice.