Plod through dew
Nannies thrash the penguin
Meaning bloodhounds. Someone
Shoveled a tonsil
Island, a shapely igloo. We of the waves
As per woven fish
Organize the sound up on poles.
Weather props the garage door open
A pollutant. A rack of canoes
Astride a blue popsicle
I hear the walking in my legs
For I understand the toe
Sly gill that survives the drought.
Soft shell crabs hem in our calm.
In an ambulance at the ready on the beach an origami hatbox classifies butterflies
Hilarity aggravates the decathlon
asking aggravated knitters to snipe
at the muscled hamburgers
the like of "Quails intrigue my soda." Purple
lachrymose skinny-dippers gargle
a shiny paste thinned with aqua velva,
yet the seamstress (recently napping)
continues to ponder clouds upon clouds
ranged softly and spasmodically upon
our jettisoned innocence
Upon the blankness (bare feet
slapping baked asphalt); or, powered
by spasmodic gargles (battery-powered fossils),
Hercules wakes up beneath my cotton
to stage a recrudescence of hilarity and triceps.
Sleeping is the stage
for the blankness that we swim within, and nakedness
stirs up mouths we never live without
to stitch a path of garbled bright
like a chipped tooth tight-roping a whippoorwill.