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 Tuesday love attracts
an obsolescent fruit or kisses dry wetting
another world but not this 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 though the ash was what I was
leading to. Who doesn’t use his
lamppost as a searchlight
or a bread truck delivering the tapered roll
along with the wheat , the white and the rye?
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