It's like this: a thud comes
warning an excess of gusty weather,
and a brown dress-shoe warms
to an igloo of impatience. Impatience?
Impatiens! And thus, you consider it
to be the toothsome obliteration
of all things jawbreaker, all things
rounded up to account
for the very pomegranate nature of the future.
Your fortune teller's written failure
all over its dictums,
walking around in an elevator's circles--
and that's really saying something
so completely mechanical
or it's the last thing ever said
before the sky drops out
of the great dreaming lollipop,
the meadowlark lemondrop,
the secret code calling you
the lining of a stomach,
and risking next to everyone
as you crash into your parents.