A pill
pushed beneath the tablecloth
is too parceled to be handled.
Its slippage signals like a
debtor's dunning letter, the yarn
prodded at its girth
before slipping in the pinhole in a blip of power,
the dreaded slice slung into the air
in which it hangs, and turns to water,
as water turns to resin in the sewer.
A hum, as handled as the joy of song,
flits about the dressing of the hummer,
rejuvenates the strum into a saucer
risen silent to a solar rung.
That upper level is a smile,
biting on the corners of the garden,
each shot of garden like a shot of time
flying from the center of the instant,
like marbles scattered on the floor
skitter in the shade beneath the oven.
A sorcerer sends out a ball of magic—
translating along the monorail, it rings—
like an image fastened to the iris.
It's seared into the space before us,
painted on the basin of this moment in the forest—
contained, like a family eating supper,
as a ripple holds a stone within its center.
*
The sounding board is thumped and opened in the burning respite.
Boomerang, the noise of arches holding up the vault.
The slurry passes thru the loop, and the loop is dizzied, grasping at the air.
The Søren Kierkegaard, the sortilège, Dramamine, boomerang.
The droves of teardrops heaped into a sloshing body, and the body turning fine within a moment, battered by the radio-plate.
The welding torch bows, balletic; stiffens in disbelief; and slips into the safe dimension.
I can't hold it. I'm taken by a dance move, wrought iron, the good sound dispersed into the grass.
It was a hula hoop, an open sore, a vision in all directions. It was a stroke of luck. The pigeon folds its wings and slips into a dove.
The heap of bones can still be folded up and knobble down the lane. There's something in the water. The season, preening, corrects it to the week. Breath can still be warmed inside the mouth, light can pass between the elbow and the rib.
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