No, it wasn't the same as my canyon-outlook,
But its stickiest fragment, a toe wiggle or a cough,
I pocketed. I remember
Drawing on red feathers the lost receipts
Of thrifty photographs, now adrift
In which direction? Isn't anyone
At the hole for us? We match well.
Thoughts resume their art. Autumn rakes
Are knee-deep. My son writes,
"not yet." Much interference is dialed-in
As the eavesdropper knows, but my own feeling
Is better viewed from a cliff.
Why no respite from outsider predictions,
From these dandelion idiots? This passion for blinds?
Coincidentally the hailstones, falling like crumbs,
Will always aggressively ask the window for seconds.
Not the case with my catalog picture of you
Under the mistletoe. Bundled there
Are whodunits and nibbles of cookie—
Lumpy potatoes, lumps of pillow for one head,
My years of random slurring and chemistry.
Don't run from the season premier
(However I turn is soon to be done),
Or the pebbles cavorting in your wake.
They spit on the suitable offer, the current
Beneath cordial like blankets quilted under picnics,
Wailing buckets about has-been coupons expired,
In lesser venues and crowds—so we may never get to check out
On a day like today, or yesterday.
So she went into the garden to cut a cabbage leaf to make an apple pie;
and at the same time a great she-bear, coming up the street pops its head
into the shop. "What! no soap?" So he died, and she very imprudently
married the barber; and there were present the Picninnies, and the Grand
Panjandrum himself, with the little round button at top, and they all
fell to playing the game of catch as catch can, till the gunpowder ran
out at the heels of their boots.
-- Samuel Foote
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