At the known world's all too finite end,

The sole room on the highest floor's last bend,

Length and width and height intimate infinity,

Fixated on the terminal of Room Fifteen Twenty-Three.


Here the sky and land are crisp and sure,

Mitred as they are by architecture,

The builders well-connected implication

Sublimely waving at the nation,


Nuts and bolts which, when agglomerated, 

Have the rum of vision emulted,

Which have in lofty swaying turn defined

The high-rise hopes of all mankind,


All the weight of being arabesque

Come to center on our corner desk -

The distant incandescence of a star

Confined insider our minibar,


The ends of meaning brought immensely nearer

By splashing on our bathroom mirror,

Reflecting such amenities as a window seat

Where time and nothingness can meet


("Our rental units faced in such a way

As to serve the stellar objects of your stay -

Not to mention awnings which imbue

Your rest stop with its eternal view").


A somewhat morbid, haughty interface

On the edge of timeshare space

With dragons and administrative creatures

Promulgating all its water features,


The horizon of our human limits

Unscrambled for us by the Marriotts,

The terminally conclusive score

Listed finally in the corridor,


The registry of chosen places

Locked at last; our lush oasis

Closing down its endless tumblers

By running out of hotel numbers.