A fig tree in the rank of lucky things, nears oneness and soft thanks to the moment meant sifted ginger and we skipped church, played hooky, hurry, they'll see when the bells hurt of togetherness that every sound means language and language means nothing-- (hubcap, lapdance, fat Saturday) that music, that lucid shrug of fresh fruit in the ready weather polished into the surface of a song hallucinating its past lives onto the voice of, by-now, shrines, witnesses, fastcared Vesuvius went rolling into its duty like a youthless spouse and the aged future Now, the new lavender comes in fog and matches the shape of just saying it together in the same phrase and then backing away creates echoes and those are sold separately and kept behind the glass, glass, glass, selling-out, which goes on breaking bills into tickets, entrances, trances, trenches and so-forth
Then we snap out of it, back to be-bop like nothing ever happened
