The crop of this expanse is stubble, no, how do
you say, loops, simulation of fat land. Diplomats
walk on them and so do we. Every loop
rears its head once - ah fleeting youth! -
and turns around and returns to the dust.
And every loop's string is the next loop soon
which one could pull to make the first one small.
And each one is, itself, a mix of fibres
that wrap around each other as they hurry,
supporting one another's prejudices.
Looking for patterns in the furry wasteland,
all I can do is stroke and stroke the loops,
bury my fingers in them, who immediately give way
as they confuse my thoughts and suck up all my tears.