Head on Bowl

Getting there —

Lob and we
are meant to fall. 
Rhymes the gall.
Chimes the way 

runes the dunes
weighs head on bowl
a whistleblowers
metastable —

Called to stand
in black and pink
home’s drawers
and drawers
are filed with it —

— farceurs allures
— loves of loaves 
— Vincent’s napsters
in fields of crow.

Boning honing sky
for mariners readings
bird guides feeding
posts along the spillway.

Enters, at crosshairs
pure is
as pure as —
a collapsable chair.

Gloms a hat
that is a cat
that is a bat
and all that.

In library
with hair clip
scales sails —
for a collection plate

because sky and noon
shot cross a bow
and in the boon —

beholds
unfolds

the midair mudroom
flying lobster
sitting bull

whose physics is
a gap with pull.

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