Mosaic

Hammer the triangle and cut it into songs. Indispensable henna. Polish the melody. Recruit the rhythm from a resilience written as turpentine. Fiddle with a little wisdom. Widen and flow. Branch into subtleties. Ride a hormone. I have smooth skidoodle arms. You need them to lift the symmetry around here. Meanwhile, I continue my search for Paris. A mineral Baudelaire that expands into birch. My aim is improved by flipping the wood into motels with lovely blue beds. I ache all afternoon trying to absorb the idea of signs. Isn’t there something semantic about a giraffe? What is the world trying to tell us? Do we truly belong here? Swimming soothes my tools. I abhor the stethoscope but not the hand that holds it. The fingers are a little overdeveloped. They glow like glue. I see motion in the window and something perturbing the flowers. The wind. Birds. Explosions along the fence. The gardenia simmers in its beauty. The clash of meanings is more than a little hypothetical. I answer the clasp on my shirt with a burning alchemy of creamery butter. I freely employ the string. The music is a mosaic of melody and anvils. I squeeze the wind and it drops like a word. Needs energize my craving for knowledge. The planet has an engine whose properties are marked in the firmament as a ghostly mutation of secret things. Redemptions that crash around us like chains. Granite folds the sky into dimes of shiny supposition. Each of us impels a fantasy, a thicker eyebrow than venison. Wander into Hinduism and enhance the drums. Clench what you clench, clutch what you clutch. Clenching and clutching is what we do when we listen to the newer dimensions stream into our probability theories. The candles are all cracked. It happens. It has something to do with light, and singing, and hitting a tambourine. What do you believe? I believe the interior of a word is fur.