The New Year

A new year arrives in a carriage of stars and scrapbooks. The words to describe it wiggle into place and tell of gauze and exploit. We sit and listen to an entire spectrum of tinsel and deformation. Trapezes shadow the carp. Space waves. Gravity spills. The new year stretches and feels shiny already and complicated like a religion, or lobster. I scratch my aloud as a chisel that freely scuds the stratosphere. The language gets big and black and obscure and so becomes an incident of ductility. I accommodate my tie with an unexpected shirt. This liberates the buttons and so the story begins to simmer in its own bulbs. This is curiously ocher, like a lamp, or sorority. I have sometimes tied an image above the words in order to make them green. The incident is stirred by amplification, making the emotions float. This is absorbed by the eyes and sent to the brain as a daughter. The staircase solicits more steps. It sounds like a propeller probing the water for momentum. Age has minted new wrinkles on my face, some of which grow metaphorical. I have a passion for allegory and will incense a word if it bleeds during Hawthorne. The blade squirts from the handle shining in the sun like a revelation. France embodies various ideas of liberty and justice around meanings that get pushed beyond antiquity. We escape the light long enough to cook some darkness. A syllable screams for music. Syntax churns. The energy is cultivated and loaded into a parody of butter. I strain the desk sticks climbing for another metaphor. My arms are proximities which culminate in fingers, appendages I use for pressing things. The copper is etched then burned to induce color. A stellar stepladder expands the crowd. The chronology is imbued with implications of time and how its malleability might be perforated by prickly, Mediterranean herbs. We gaze and roll at the punctuation as the new year enlarges with fiddlesticks and oak and endeavor itself becomes an ideal inhabited by birds. Wealth may occur, and the power of the fingernail. The new year clouds with handsprings. Work continues peremptorily on the farm whose virtues adhere to nature. Later, we will assemble a folklore, and celebrate the new mess with a deepened understanding of alleys.