Edge Effects

Sometimes during endless holiday mornings after a photograph of Louis Armstrong points the bell of his horn at the head of the Sphinx and plays something I can never make out I drift back to a deeper sleep and lay at the bottom of a yellow-green glowing space hung with bathyspheres, each of which is filled with a signals that relay greetings from the steppes or the exploding Madonna of the maple leaves or travelers tangled in ribbons made from risk who cross thin arcs that lead from A to B over streams of tumble and signs.