Running low on fire, I fume
a Sunday from its tail
as it undoes time, and every whim
I have sauntered on in enema,
from grace to cribs,
having undone shores.
A rattle may rat my mystery –
a matinee show might mint a melody.
Making eye wear a show from which I bliss
I chide the snow man –
a rib I wist, and all is done
till next day can find its suit.
It’s a letters’ aperture I wary.
It peaves into an absurdity
as it wishes away any query.
I must instill a gap to gape through
and I’ll be keen to call my hairdo
a culling cape which I fare.
Nothing is as hissing as my whistle –
some day I might wing a vapour,
into its mounted shore it will play together
a honey comb fulfillment
and a place to piece pie too eager
just to flutter by in a few single affairs.
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