Yellow cloud of hooking as it pulled, a hinge of fruit biting through three flavors cramped marble tight, sturdy, new religion, man now, but can we dream? This tint holds more clues and blades than a hint of grass or cut coke to cry for like babies pinched whole to borsht, soft, mixed, swimable. Stretching wind and roads beckon with dirt and stamen, important news to the scarecrow of OZ, tin mailboxes from the rolled doll, spines of paper with ticking oil cans and brick roads banana brown and glass. Let us toast to new goblets and jeweled cheese sharper than Parker needles found in the park, cold and dead to the touch of feet bare bone stemmed and pink, tip tap like the raised Incan heel, old, roped. Steady ache and the beating bruise mark the freezing locker, mad cows from the farm of tornadoes and egg go to Noah and the sea of grass cropped by the third Superman, a foul smell with his cape of cod, scales for that sea, see, chim chim cheree. No, I hold no melting candy for this gold ticket and its beckon to perplex complexion Seurat, but, but, chance can mean jaws for time and palace breath sighed passed its fine queens and belled velvet, laughs from the lute, cuts from the king’s crown, crisp drumsticks, stinging armor and the big breasts we know, lace to the olive trim and dirty, medieval love. Steel is in season, Heschel in reason and dust all around, pubic and foreign, kicked by the warm lamps and wood.