Shake it like an alien autopsy Polaroid.
Amid the glare and talking to the sea
I dreamed I had invented you, and when I awoke
The porter pointed up beyond the door.
They from the dim inane and vague opaque
Sell droshky lite and droshky fake
Or some aught-else whose being-unknown doth rot
And Minutemen, they say, is what we are.

K. S.