DRUID HEAD-TO-HEAD

The deck is stacked in this position.

He cuts the deck and shows the cards,

    just as they were left.

He traded dips. The rotor didn't turn,

    the showroom shuttered as she

dictated her dips. It didn't track

    the chronicle exactingly.

Someone cited Mamma Mia!, the judges

    tallied digits and directed

    contemplation to the docket.

They were adepts. This didn't mean that

    they were experts. They didn't look

    like figures from the chronicle.

A beaded slip is tightened on the hob. The

    digits on the slip are not directly

    what was meant.

The beads are dotted underneath

    remembrance, undoubtedly a posture

    crucial to the body's chronicle.


If it is etched throughout

    and decked in total detail, there is

    a thin, dark layer stuck

    to the topography. The well-

    adapted darkness accrues dicta,

    but only well-adapted talkers

    curve the molding to their service.

Like dirt under a fingernail, the black

    veil on the funny duplicated surface

    is a cause for talk. The words

    can say, heaving on along

    the thready drudge, a horror over

    duty dime-and-nickled in discussion.

    The heady minute pointer tallies

    every digit on the verso,

    overloaded with the weighty

    overspeculated chronicle. The 

    ditty spun over the molded dark is not a

    dainty daughter traipsing out of doors.

    Ahoy, and anchor—a dome upon

    us in our years advanced. This is a

    dual song, the heavy story.

A sembled order dribbled on the wall 

    allowed a couple earnest 

    surveys of the hearse. A bit of wisdom,

    and the symbol soon deterred from 

    gated shapes does many earnest steps in 

    old directions, the symbol styling portions 

    of its head under the abnegated guising on the 

    plate. Odysseus was sometimes selfish, and

    sometimes said what he had only once believed,

    Penelope a dribble giving cover for his body's

    sediment experiment. Oh, an ode to devil's

    newly heavy body, lurching here and there

    upon the burning lake, many of him new and

    using what was old to pitch a trove of

    phonemes, some only divulged with half a heart

    and with the older tongue. He knew it was

    a wornout tongue, it sounded in the phonemes

    that he tried. Ahoy, the drawing of the other

    druid's abnegated dribble, specializing toadstools

    aided in the ode by many years.

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