a fascinating pancake

Some soot on the stove, our reserve
of portents certainly streaming, as with the river and the bay,
the swayings of little leaf in October or even now
water sounds back the black faucet, simply resisting us.

This Gautier around your neck, flecks of emerald indispensables
and snake sayings and dog hairs, I’m playing at the sacrificial rites
of spring. We’re stirring things like soup on the stove, it’s dirty,
and you bake clay in glass fixtures so as to not burn the bottoms.
Darling, your bitty beasts are crooked. The horse is more dog than that
and the idea of a dog right now is all you need to tail my bed
and snore. A sort of diamond.

More than that, I like your foppish do. For a second you look yawningly,
then sinister, then it's up to me to stay placed, to smokie smokie
while you revolt to a stole. My bed is so white.
You look like a bush in it. It's better we know the whole thing
backwards: the bed is certainly elliptical, the motions rotiserrie,
and the hot, hot. Everything, terns. Terns flirting in the orange trees,
banging the french doors, coming into a kind of spring both violent
and aware. As with modern dance and oyster crackas.

This room is made, I daresay, fatefully for the few
who don't know it's differences. That cats will get you to the statues
of yourself in the forrier. That pependicular lines have more to do
with the railroad ties toothing the hall than the direction
of our equal volition. I am in strength and soupiness, as you are to animals
and animals in sweaters. There is a by
the bookishness that constantly flays our bodies into thinness first unimaginable,
then quite nice, meandering as the head of someone hunched in the corner.
I am now hunched if not crooked, but looking still fair for now
on the feilds, the bits of hairs on my bed, and the body of all of it properly
confused but not lost there, not even moving to me.