Is an imaged Word, an imagined Thing False that falsifies Reality-- Made itself of maybes in our uncertain clime? A clock of hairs grows boisterous Upon a curly mantle indifferent to ticks; Does this winsomeness rescind in a swish Starker clacks that tap the Reality of Time, Or 'tis it time t'was taught our make-believe Before it ever sauntered off the shelf To drive us will-hee nill-hee over hills Past our final ploys to final plots Springing green in Floridian retirement parks? How does the poem of apricot, bon mot, Go on being apricot in a grove of orange? Is this ripe, particular fiction Compounded, pat-pat, out of the real? Oranges or apricots, we ourselves go on Being our granular, indecisive selves, Daily twinges of one eternal twang, Niggling addenda adducing vast impossibilities, Long after the mirror's form informs each eye We are not what we were. What can one say With capable pronunciation? Let huzzahs help Tortured clocks to tick, apricots to drip Each imagined day into the reality of night.