Later on, it transpires,
and how else shall I greet it?
This gulch, in recent memory,
was eaten up by ghosts.
Somewhere flickers,
heat smudged and dry-weary.
One eye remains clear,
the other goes bleary
when the fog regales us
with miscellaneous details.
Let the molly do the talking, we’ll see.
Too much losing for but one evening.
Dopamine in a minor key.
This could be just the distress
we’ve been looking forward
to overlooking.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 
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