The modern Pandora

gratefully accepts

your Sixpence’ worth

of opinion,

and revels in your unearned view

of the moments

to which one side

does not fit all,

perhaps late at night

the joy of burning wings

is a thrill, moth driven Ego,

inflated by the size of the Sun,

head down, a sentence written,

and then written again

in another place, an argument

of conflicting locations,

the opinion given, satisfied,

in the eyes of the dull

hilarious,