Remote, in this sparsely appointed corner,
We project our way upon the sky,

a firm plateau of gray beneath us
and a bicycle turned upon its side.

The lead-wheel upturned,
it splits the air
and raises piles of ice cream high above.

Greater and richer,
the pillar grows,
stacked by the wheel’s uplifting power,

until sparkling bits of chocolate
like unimaginable raindrops
fall before us there,
the exquisite tower toppled over
by a silken contingent of clouds.

– William Mullins