Sea algae and sea-era dust.
Loosed postage randomly pasted as an old tableau vivant I always held me over,
over on a wall of the old chateau—a high-test
contusion of refugeed bees milling round for a chance to beat out
beats on the taut skin
of my only wholly tuned conundrum. Hold me, I’ve been put on hold.
Low in panoramic dale or hoarse from attempting to wail, those I ran me from
was guests, centipedal nodes vastly scurrying.
From where may I not pour me over, a wispy helmsman
nearly undone in fevered looking? Of sea algae pairs
trying it out in a porous land. Of chain-excesses hand
in hand with the first ferocious noseeums.
Of a season.
A singing bridge scuffed then scuttled by a roar of cleats be a wriggling troubled bowl,
be a bad hole.
With a lung-full heaped full of ballast for scope,
I come in low
over the false-eyed leafy copses
bent in for the lack or how two who love do a deal
from the sea of throws.