Sugar tine, laughing rind, not so sour anymore.
Finger wine, summertime, hell has no more hounds to sell.
Insolent islands fight the sky, thinking we need no bees.
The flowers dispute, but are in disrepute, and in any case, can’t afford the fees.
Wrinkle with my wrist’s watch, counting silence near the clocks.
There are secrets beneath the trees.
Too much falls on the brain, when the weather’s full of knives.
Cutting finds empty seals, broken for long forgotten decrees.
License is permission to commit atomic fission, and blow away the sighs.
Listen to the crazy talk, and raise up a string of kites to the invisible flows above.
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