Sample History of Sense of Wonder

One can only lie back in bed and think that he
should bud somewhere in the wine cellar. Or, think,
flowers have a happier time of it, being
potted...you know the image.   One must write the story
in the laundry or on the back of a defeated
mermaid slipping below the surface no matter
if the lamp distorts the glare through the lugubrious
windows.  No matter if on Tuesdays love attracts
an obsolescent fruit or kisses dry wetting
another world but not his one.  A cluster
of tree boughs wag in a simplifying motion.
Bats siesta amid the clatter. That's what I
love about them, and my Aunt too!  But who
doesn't glimmer through the ash was what I was leading to.
Who doesn't use his lamppost as a searchlight
or a bread truck delivering a tapered roll
along with the wheat, the white, and the rye?