There Will Come A Time

There will come a time & it will howl. It will cry out for sea lions. And rocks. Rocks for the sea lions. Sea lions for the rocks. Nothing is frozen & everything is intimate. The grotto is exciting & the gentle is lovelorn. We see a masquerade & like to rehearse when the ocean is rubbing against the moon. This is proceeding to bleed indefinitely. Let’s sail into the mystic with the dolphins and dodos and diphthongs and derelicts and facts. Facts are fables of accuracy. How can you miss a country if you don’t have a passport and all of your memories are oceans of mist and multiplicity? I find the meaning of regret in the eye of an egret. Remorse in the back of a horse. I think this song will serve to float someone’s implementation one day. Time is running away, chased by a midnight hour. You could say the minutes are madcap and the rabbits are dead. But the elk are bounteous this year and the lobsters of Paris embrace Nerval like the admiral of a poem. He is dead now and so completely alive in a melon. There’s discipline in an expedition and homework in a mitten. I think you’ll know what I mean if I say that there are no obstructions in calculus only irrational numbers and uncouth nominatives. I can taste the Middle Ages in a mint and Middle English in a ravine. Encyclopedias roam my knob like a herd of outfields. That’s my glove on the wall. We were married in June and grosbeaks flocked around the soup. The book was haunted by an index of hermits and ozone. Images glow in the distance. They were brought here by a language and are accumulating a lot of attention in the ears and mouths of the local fauna. A candy-colored clown they call the sandman frowns as he interprets a hope as a ranch on the range of the inundated. Don’t meddle with a Texan. I can’t help it if I try. I’m inaugurating a neck with a swan. I can’t be bothered with the guffaw even if it is clear and square like an ice cube. Somebody needs to drink this down or it will just spoil. Nothing smells worse than an unread paragraph. Old letters are often perfumed and this is why the past persists into the future. Heathens in the heather overspread the renovation of an old revolt. The least is the last to push a mango through the snow. Don’t abuse the fruit. Get up and jog or else become a nook and dangle here while I look for a nick of time and a nuclear pulp. Immodesty is geothermal. I wear the mantle of a needle in my milieu of kneecaps and dew. The newborns are monumental if the decisions go public and the lights ignite the feeling wrapped around the foreground of a Gothic perspiration. We’re tough and real and jiggle our gardenias. Beat time. Do handstands in Kenya.