The bellowed fog in open night,
Becomes unremarkable in the navy folds,
Buried in something thinner than shadows,
Something like the lonely sky.
For a friend, the eve is vacuous,
Though it truly is an eve within.

The foil of haste has wrecked,
Upon my frame that I inspect,
Ill-fallen limbs and swollen neck,
Now haste is dead. Kicked up but specks,
Of dust and fury sharpening the edge of coughs.

Computer Head with a heavy lean,
A croaking stool tucked far away,
In corners working noisily,
Tapping code and writing physics fast,
Drawing art with light-up mice in grasp,
Tumble to the kitchen now,
And lighting comes to fry a feast,
And strikes Computer Head to dance,
And watch him dance,
And smell the air,
The aromatic waft adraft,
Back to the stools and noisy screens,
Back to Computer Head with heavy lean.