Like compressions in euchre. That I if for
the impediment's subtle turning of a phrase.
Like a selvages urn -- a diminution of limits.
A sea is taxing the brawl. Like answering
your questions with a yes and a yes, a no,
sometimes, and a no and a maybe I know
where the child is at. Maybe he's sitting
in the rain's dull posture. Or sucking on
a tutelage of flavors. Two summersaults
to winter the tongue's wine-dull aperture.
What else? What else? That if remaining
unmixed with the world's darklier matter?
Perhaps, it's the impossibility of acting
in the "now." So paled to ghosts and an
invisible price. The Admiral's Grayling
or Cloudless in its Sulfur in Common.
The Zebras and in their incessantly flaps,
like the future's own dawn of cataracts.
Utopia, Utopia. Oh where art thy Utopia?
In other words, she was a whore. But he
came back nevertheless. White shirt, a tie.
Dressed to impress, my dad. Always the one
to speak like an obdurate polyp as it cusped
the bladder of the wet and hammering shore.