Franklyn Monk

It’s summer,
Time of the burning dream
When the air shatters into song
A fracture a shard at a time

When Katana, the Fox, darts from
The wheel well of a melting Karmann Ghia.
And pounces into the Blackwood,
Where the song recedes ghost cold and still

An end point of a configuration space
Of a subsystem spanning subsystems
With fudged and blurred initial conditions
Understood as motionless possibilities.

The clearing strains, and holds, and breaks
Into new songs as Katana smiles and runs,
This time it’s a disused warehouse
Where the cunning sneak drinks or naps

When it breaks the Fox’ll move on
To meditation studios, and dungeons,
Daydreams, and death,
Katana the Nexus: the Binding, the Breaking