A derivative of rapture and shore spilled across the patio. The feeling of striking fields with eagle eye, pouncing on pollen moments, singing into vascular conveyance, all for a chance encounter global unit. Towns are like soup cans
We invented Syria, here in the wanting confines of American pity. We distilled petrol elegance, singing vast songs about how Canada could come to us. The patio's prevailing pylon strung words for our spore units. We would tell a tale of America as an up and coming has been, with brocades for sure. But details are for morons, righting wrongs with clamps and weevils.
No one loves weevils, now or ever. They are ever portrayed. Poetry is a precinct.
And as paragraphs go, so too the cat on the patio. The patio is a dark excrescence, notched with the pungency of conservative underwear. It tells the tale of place and time. This place, this time, this cookout. We plan to cook out, with eager engines ready to qualify our remarks. Some days are no days at all, just tracks upon the carpet while the carpet supplants the floor. Supplanting is a brutal intonation. We sweat our regards.
Here is a poem about pant. Just pants.