From This End

I sleep six days for every one I open my eyes.
I take pictures and then run three days from the source.
Fiction fixes place in time when fact is fleeting,
and all reality's a vanishing point
at the end of a long line of roadside poles.

At least that's how it appears
on the other end of a pen, a lens,
from behind a particular pair of binoculars,
in the news and financial reports,
on the calendar three Sundays from now
where the crow goes long.

#772: This Week's Poem

A Don Hertzfeldt Triple Feature: If You're Sick And You Know It, Clap Your Hands