Morning cracks and lets in
dirigibles of halycon pinkness.
The herpecin works across
a garbled sky, Cars huddle
against the curb as
an algorithm of old lady
walking walks by. I
unglue my eyes from their
insidious relations with
the treeline, a phantom bell;
ringing out these varicose
roundeux through stoic
milks of just barely now
now. A pantoum ball sections
off by drowning what tars I
interweave with the light.
My interview with velocity
mentions cellophane three times, then
plunges deeply through the creases
of alacrity. The birds only startle
the cat. The pepcid AC cools. You
know? I'm a pocket of summer cold.
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THE MORNING BELL
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Type: discussion