.....There are Relics We May 

...........Fly Above Them 

warble his native wood-notes wild
-John Milton 

Transient flowers mimicked as I zephyr
this foreign language, bonker along 

the float of soda while these twistful rain
renditions slowly fed up by black sky 

belly born their wonder, in dapple gem
petals unfolding overlapped tangles 

loud with the volute tone of tertiary color,
wholly profound with untapped fragility. 

Pupil composites that spritz yet not
without the pull of collapsible ruckus 

as with that of a harlequin's nudging
muddle across hazel flounced ground, 

that bounded impartial towards nimble
folly in figurants of angled down mirth, 

the clay between every stone forever
set and lain beneath the surface of all 

which we are but are not-- temperate echos
flapping our inflections vivid to field 

where thought can dime-back corpus,
blithely traipse through dog eared  

morning this trip that button catapults
when zippered by the toe, come fantastic 

the world's citra appetence swizzled,
top-spunned, rallied onward to this, this 

enduring misprint of some thoroughfare
giclée residual to a never long lasting sun.