Divination

By Philip Byron Oakes

The zealot's satire with fangs and a rose garden
at the dark end of the house with candles. There
it was. Anyone's guess. As good, if not better yet.
The rhinoceri running unfettered through the
parentheses, with which the savannah is fenced .
I meant to call you. Sir. If the state of the obelisk
is any indication. The derelict's entourage find
the shadows accommodating. The sheets, crisp.
Violets abandoning purple in a pinch. The march,
into the belly of the megasaurus, being complicated
by the mellifluity of tangents, spicing sidewalks
with toe tickling delights, to the amazement of
incumbents to the smell of bacon. Slumbering
enthusiasts making their stand lying down. Isn't
that just like an Etruscan? Sneaking out the front
door, at the ellipse in the discussion of the ratio
of biscuits to life spent searching for water.  .

 

 

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