Tumult is the puff of smoke that visits the tavern
Mocking the stationary, gradually. Tumult is the
Air in which reflections visit each other in their
Mirror homes and mirror graves. Tumult is the ninth
Heaven sitting on top of the eighth sitting on top of
The Seventh, which is the tortoise. And tumult is the
Elephant that goes around the room speaking elephant
Volumes of untruth, of the gulbadan retiring in her
Antechamber, gleefully.

And now you want her to prance out, lilting. Need to wait baba.

This entry was posted in Poetry.

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