The fairy-blue book fell
into the rose well,
fathoms deep.
Lore rises on the smell,
yours to keep.

Like a flying insect,
it hovers exact,
darts around
sharp-angled in aspect.
Lightspeed-bound

metallic mandala,
sometimes a cigar,
yields crop art
and third-kind encounters
probing arse.

Worshippers in tin foil
testify piecemeal
of cabals
masking aliens real,
scales and all.

*[ WSB ]_.