I drink ginger ale with a lemon in a short glass. Crystal and Tiffany are here. We  watch a Gregory Dark film. Totally sober. The endless refinements don't make us more relatable, but we're past worrying about the simple, the mean. Look at nature. See the equal tones—in here; and out there too. I was a writer. For as long as it took to get out of it. I stopped reading around 2005. Thought is a waste of energy, and I'm not playing. What did they say, "Master of the Game." But I fulfill the promise. Crystal and  Tiffany fulfill the promise. They leave the body with me because the sense plane is echoic. I come out of the body and into the body. It's like a reeling tape. Cosmopolites, they never leave their boundaries. And we know the stories, the hard copy, so we stay underground, or in heaven. You know the environment is like a seal. Tiffany, like these flowers on the table. They're pure being, like Crystal, revealing all things in perfect refraction. The source of all my poetry, the interior of the set—the TV and the vase, opening just enough to find the narrow way. I saw the veil and everything  behind it. Over and over. Crimson and clover.

Jon Leon is a poet based in New York City. He is the author The Malady of the Century (Futurepoem, 2012).