The Solace Of Hands

Nails absorb the alpaca. The invention of extraversion helps the chemicals find their way to a deeper expression of sparkled organza. Point the calculus at the almonds. It’s where the exponents rescue the sad triumph of privacy. Age dazzles time because it’s tied to the belt buckle, not the balloons. Think of the choir as a cyclotron. Think of music as a soybean. Think of  your hands as within reach. Think of a peach on a beach and an owl on a towel. Think of a sleeveless one-piece jumpsuit extended into a sideboob tattoo of atomic theory. I think I know what thinking is but I don’t know what it is I’m thinking. Can it be oviparous? Can it justify beige? Can it groom its wings with shoe polish? Can it assume inscrutable shapes? Distractions are always soaked in language. This is because opacity justifies the clarity of the teepee. I need to cure the scratch on my elbow. Asphalt has a painting to develop. The cracks are harnessed to a summons of subterranean flutter. The roots escape the lake. Ambiguity arrives in opposition to algebra, though nobody knows why the kangaroo is wearing a velvet fedora. Smells encompass a swarm of noses. The contact has a natural interior known as the sinus, or crawling. My address is under a cap of galvanized tin. The brim is stiffened mass. The jackknife refines the thrashing of grass as the stars shave above the wind. I’m dripping now, pulling a piano played by a flock of sparrows. My thirst beats against the chocolate, expecting thought. Lines joined in circumference mutate into a junkyard. We plummet through our conversation setting thought a-jabbering. The stipples are a delectation of progress in the sphere of the hyphen where all the knights wear scrap metal and all the birds are liquid airplanes. I am hinting at the exploration of experience. The knobs maneuver the moose. The railroad hauls people east, to haircuts and jobs. Byzantium arrives by mail. Almonds rescue the bobble of despair. I ache in a stream I’ve approved by an innocent enjoyment of headlights. The chair is an abstraction of space sawdust. We’ve all seen it before: the eyes of the mailbox watching your every move as it discharges letters from all the Romantic poets. And then why, I don’t know, it all turns to succotash. No need to panic. Contact is good. Touch as much as you can. There is solace in the hands.