I drive a car that does not

believe in beyond

 

2019—internal calendar limited.

 

When my dad holds up a nut

driver and asks What would you

 

call this? my mathematician

counts its expectation

 

for six sides, belly full.

 

From this angle,

Dick-a-Tuesday

 

is below the horizon

and has few Google results;

 

safe words cross will

-o’-the-wisp search.

 

Cajole attojoule combination.

 

If I let Pascal’s mystic

hexagram map

 

where the road will find

cones, may

 

the Lampyridae traffic

our stops,

 

though this window

button sleeps.