Formulary

There’s cod below the cracked harness. I’m luminous to my shoes and eager to fly a button. I would like to discuss my gravity this autumn. It’s a very weighted topic. I put the emphasis on a dollop of Wednesday, and swim toward the card game using a vocabulary of arms and feet. If I swamp the boat, turn the fireworks toward the symphony as they attempt to find their fugue. I spit shadows at a facsimile of bone. I’m not entirely reckless but I am open to spinning around with you. Let’s assemble some reality with lines stolen from Dante. Look at the words glitter as they assume shapes of bubbling declension. Sweep the panic under a guitar twang. Later, when we unearth the pallet, we can envy Africa and its mighty flowers. It’s never been like this before. That is to say, I’m haunted this year by a paper cow. I boil my words in a cauldron of verse. I curl into a towering seclusion and shave my reticence with a nebular cricket. The pulse of Céret is in its milk and cookies. The parlor pitches forward with conversation and Proust appears entangled in adjectives. Iron makes me happy. But it’s oblivion that pays the rent. I feel hung up and I don’t know why. I keep finding oars and oarlocks in my catch. I’m ordering some feathers from Oaxaca and committing myself to a bag of nails and a pack of Quetzalcoatl.