Into the upper lip sun—teeth cubed beneath it. Silence jeered on the moss, leaked so incrementally that, in some other realm moreover, a gargantuan flood could click its pen. In a gushing independence, only an ogre kissing guesses could live there. His roof a worsted novel with covers of bloodhound ears are pendulous, but never turning like a page.

I popped all my buttons saying this—then I raked the buttons to the water’s edge using my forearm, wrist, and the flute joined to my hand—then a grass sped forth on one blade, tapped my eye twice, blackberries each in ringbaskets turned clear in themselves, hopping over innards eagerly onto fingers working each other’s hummingbirds into thwarts of explication, climbing over one another, unlit, yet shapely, in top hats, like burgers.

For this I was expelled, though I appeared to be storming out the candlemouth of my own volition. That upon final offer, when I expressed anything anything at all then it also would express me.

Shells within shells, lined with petal baubles, air that a gymnast has hymenbeamed—what have I done in my able meter, with a shell to my ear?