Got back my bout-rim*:


Falling swiftly into no blonde June
our Huygens went, and through three hours' stress
stonily gazed upon an orange moon,
one whose mystery sometime did obsess
a teenaged poet. Striped like coral snake
and cobweb-frail, those flailings now so moot
--yet still can freeze: one dream of yellowcake
found, with rippling waves, intact, a beaut.
And I will clasp it to myself, as Garbo
maybe no mighty secret withheld; but play
as if it might. I also as a hobo
piled stones upon a shore, my art for a day:
this gadget’s voyage, last and lingered rhinestone,
maroon clouds under, never-again cologne.


Arch.

B*ll*rophon discussion.

Spasmodics.