My every hand counts itself ready

Flow flowers in the waking hours
springing from a gerund-aware mind
into the stamen of a yellow mariposa
lily. Frilly edges make themselves into
hedges for the paying attentives, grambling 
for quarters of an hour without a purple
grumble, instead thistle down and tumble
across the rock-slid hides of marmot land.

My every hand counts itself ready for 
steady progress, demanding compounds
of interest whose reactions to day-today 
become the prepositive proposition 
propounded against the mountain until
the creek swings august, drier, doomed. 

I would like to be roomed outside the
hospital for this procedure. Lay me in
a Kentuckyless lawn, a place without 
laws, filled with claws, where the maws
of deer babes fill my mind with not-at-
all venison. Tendon tension, instead,
that sign of life that responds to a punch
in the sternum, a pinch in the cash pocket, 

a stirring in whirring pouch where the 
second brain makes its home warm and
as wild as the insides can be. Being inside
is a state of face, a nose turned off, a bee
without that cough that the hive is and
buzz afraid of. Make a cute move and stand
by. There will be cud. Consider chew. And

do not concatenate where separation is
most required. Or was is the other blade
around? A needle and bread, a beetle and
meds, a corporation and the limitation 
of deadly liability, for the good of the 
ordered road, not the road, The ordered. 

Organization and its pattern-finders are
always down and up for a good story, a 
sweet, smart glory, a sarcoma of a different
branchioma, more terms guessed at and then
wormed in after a cursor's lurch through the
echinodermata. Do not pay any abstention to
my funning. Give me bread or give me breath;
please do not provide glide, I would rather flaps.