What you need, Is to put behind all that troubles

You,

Is what you need,

A smelted smile, that rises ‘bove the ashen faces of the scrimmage

A golden coin upon which I have carved truncated similes

Gloss

Centrifugal frugality, egregious interaction, dim, dumb, like

A Chinese supermarket

(onto the crescent morsel has your eye fallen, befallen, fallen)?

Now, as though flown through a tunnel of time, little pigeons

With golden hearts and sad, know-all gaze, lightly

Seducing thunderbolts with the flight of daring, Now they were set upon like hapless newlyweds in their forties

In their abandoned chapel, by a brigade of gnomes, airborne

Droplets of human compunction. Among them were

Old gnomes, their yellow eyes buried in leafy chronicles

Middle-aged gnomes, heavy with mushrooms and rainwater

But the young ones stayed behind, smoking. And there were no, nor would ever be, gnome children.

Children are plump and sometimes sweet. Gnomes are never either.

So it seemed for once, the pigeons were endangered, and we welcome

That turn of events. State of affairs. We christen our swords,

Nudge our way through the queue. Elbow room has now become

A right, guarded more fiercely than Plotinus’ collected works.

I pushed my cart past history. It was not the aisle I was looking for.

The conditional had then extended its ominous fingers

And gripped and wrenched my heart. It is in its nature

Never to let go.

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