In these situations
I’m trying to figure out what is going on.
So is he too. Purged for oversharing,
he launched a partially deflated football
into the stands. The crow went wild.
We’ll ski the gorse on our ankles
provided that makes anyone feel better.
If not the cheapest scent availeth not.
We are all captured, out of work,
clinging to spruce dominions.
It wasn’t always this way.
Somewhere, ants were taking control
of earth’s blistered pulse.
Peanuts were jettisoned from the nacelle
of the montgolfière, all moyenâgeux and thrifty
as it came to be about. I ask only for staples
for my staple gun. This oilcloth throw goes on
in a jiffy. It will protect the surface
of pure sorbet from what accidental storms may throw at it.
Now back to the kitchen.