Mrs. Drybiscuit analyses stars. Combined, they are the marching sound of frogs' spawn; separated, they induce migraine in the hearts of singing rams.
I lift a daffodil. Beneath it there is nothing but a bone. I wish for a parcel of straw and get a liquid sausage, lit with the lucent dream of fireflies. Time massages the maidens who count calories. I find it hard to remember the songs of the distant hand. Awaiting the sublime my mind conceals the inward speech of beauty; I'm so undone I couldn't even eat my weight in gold. The balustrade is lined with ringing blades. I press my ear to one and hear the breath of dinosaurs encased in brick. The seasons stamp the ashes of our whining with a bloodless sign. The maggot art runs a golden word right through me, sublimating all that comes my way; my revelation's mindful of the inward beauty of speech.
