I only spit shine our hikes
in the woods and I marinate rain drops
in melted wax so we can peal

it off our skins when we get bored later.
I only exfoliate on lost time while
maneuvering around false hope

you seem to deliver from an eternity
void, stamped and all. I must jump its
sound and skip a couple staircases

to find its Jonas Salk.  I only go mad on
the colors I write about the clown who keeps
his nose on a rounded cliff and

his acts in prepositions. I invest
verbs with the future and liquidate  
past futile nouns in denial.  

I plunge the toilet of the oppressed
monk who never gets the good and
rough *** those mornings the birds sing.  

I sew fellowship when viscosity
is at maximum and the sewage
ruptures four feet from the prince

of mercantile who ends up
building a wall to protect himself
and others from the foggy morning.