A car sounds like
a breeze.
A sneeze of leaves
through the noses of
trees.
A quickly pealing pair of
tiring tyres.
Screeching steeple
belles.
Hark or hail.
Who goes there?
Conceal to reveal
weal
Twenty spokes
of the wheel may not
be a’woke;
But, daydreaming
Night-mares
whom you may ride
Up-on.
Tripping your shores of
not-here
nor their’s
Ewer’s.
The center can still hold
or ready, steady, go.
Despite the
quicken-
ingpen hares.
Ewe
turn on cloven toes,
split like the tongues of
Snarling snakes.
Smooth as slick.
Bare, like
plucked
Gnus.
Aria for the ballerino.
[Dreams of the alpaca hotel by the bay].
[Fables of worm farming, chain letter writers].
WrittenCasey 