Crop Circles

Crop Circles
—for Alice Fulton

I could care less—for crop circles
All those patterns—in the weeds
Counting orbits—that aren’t there
Wheat chaff—makes me dizzy

I’d rather—be a fractal addict
Alaska pipe-lining—into nothingness
There’s something—Zen-like about it
Not knowing—how far down it goes

Ultra-violet intensity—gains speed
Filling the screen—with ozone holes
I can find no shades—but perhaps
There’s a ghost—in the machine?

I’m a Mandelbrot—Entrepreneur
The cosmos makes—me feel lucky
Under right—and rare conditions
Space and time—turns me on

Something in me—oscillates
I don’t know why—or how
It’s like dreaming—Heinlein
Becoming—a fractured fairytale

What conjures up—these images
These strange—Exo-communications
These Pandora Box—entrancements
Merely entertainments—to please me?
Words no longer—can describe it
It’s stupid of me—to even try
My breath on the—cabin window
Fractal ballet—lace at midnight

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