The moody set quieted down. The assembly
Reminded me of a token seen somewhere.

Anemones and anomies shared their gasp.
Someone lovely broke down signs. Spring’s

On the tele; big daffodilies; ink reliquaries;
Printer plates readying for Summer Fest soon.

Like a saint, I carried your presumptions
To see what was ‘run off’ and what ‘me.’

That object you had moved into the rear
Came priced: to watch a lover’s long nap.

Yet I hate what impinges Easterful nuance,
Gamboling niceness or stemming our talk.

Placards were placed over the corpse-body.
A salutary banister defeated each porpoise.

Then what? A mule strains for pitted reach.
My mysterious speech has one gallery left.

Stewards no longer wizen on high-heels away
To Chelsea, Stockholm and storage supplies.

If cunning is my laughter, as it sees naked X,
how would I ever see you then yourself again?

In the range of the orange pony, a flower
Weighs more than the banality of names.

Daft helicopters wave to stations behind us.
Militant mums pound drums of their dreams.

God bless you. Tucked away, carted away,
And sitting by sprouts in goodly kind fate,

I have a prayer that weakens this treasuring,
Specked with the debris of your wonderment.