X. La Roue de Fortune

For hundreds of years there was unanimity about how to construct a bottle.
Even if battered, visible blue glass; being closer to ultraviolet, photodegrades
The contents.  Amber vials, with light-playing eddy currents drive inexorable wheels
Behind their plasma signs and sandblasted apothecary glass. Short-chained
Compounds mingle with the most personal thoughts—for how wide tolerances
May be made. Scattered blue lozenges in the red soil and gravel paths—Cobalt

Oxides of bottles or underglazes of porcelain all lined up against a sash. Cobalt
Slipped plates order, according level and need, the quince tree’s collapse; bottled
Oil of cloves prune the fruits of their suffering. Selected for its shade or frost tolerance—

Not to fireblight—the pomme in Song of Songs may have been a quince. They photodegrade—
All those sunlit reams like runner adrenaline—Perhaps then fulfillment of these chains
Lies in distortion of their boundaries. Cobalt catalysts could well replace plants wheeling

Out the hydrogen and oxygen.  What was once rare engages a planetary wheel—
The way a metal-flecked membrane splits water; it imparts those persistent cobalt
Glazes, to include ourselves in schemas of circulation. Proper tension of timing chains
While crucial, hardly exceeds the pull of molecules. One arresting flash from a bottle,
Our wide verges of existence are struck from the cooking record—A photodegraded
Fresco in an untended monastery occupied by lizards, or a pressure tolerance

To a thousand meters short of precious ores. It flickers in a smile, this tolerance.
So equivocal a proposition, midday attitudes are leather-hard on the potter’s wheel.
Stowing the wet tools, one sets down caricatures on shredded timber, to photodegrade  

Or else leave their trails in the cloud chamber, which requires synthesized cobalt’s
Ordered magnetism—Under a field, the rejecting mass sputters particles; and with bottled
Supersaturated vapors, jerk drowsily into opposite angles. Like mock city streets, chains

Drawn across our open eyes—Agents keep pounding the crosswalk’s diagonals chained
To phones—Scrolling wrapped text of trade catalogs, or computing dose tolerance
Some enchainments are a prize in their own right. There is always the ubiquitous bottle
And defensive weapon should a thief skip asterisks, and alight on our gaming wheel.
There is eventually a ceiling for containing everyone, with or without fading blue cobalt
Tattooing—Read under skylights or ductwork inserted without regard, the photodegraded

Newsprint victims—A gathering hand covers the morning nudity photodegraded
By interactions of the sunlight and ground-level ozone. Most sought after closed chains
Percolating in the fitted palaces of your collarbones—I instantly recognized like cobalt
Willow pattern. Sometimes embedded in the actual objects; therein, the tolerance
Paradox. Vacantly waiting until my lips turn blue, hopes blank as they shatter, I cartwheel
Should they benefit from sacrifices. (Being is a latent concern of all the stirrup spout bottles,
 
Erotic figurines shifted from the cumulus of a new garage or underground—These bottled
Responses of attraction are safely projected from there. Barring attempts to photodegrade
By the pictorial press, and to foster a religion; we aspire, that is, until the wheel  
Renders comment. In the required climate, and swift application of the chain
Rule; one favors delusion, if to keep pace with the moon's transits. Tolerance,
With its theatrical supplements, is at once a dusky expression and a cobalt

Bruise.) With a bioplastic bottle, and with a filter adulterated with cobalt,

Inspect my tolerant corneas, which can neither make out photodegraded print
Nor look askance the neighbor’s chain-link fence—a blindness translated by a wheel. 

Le Pendu XII

Suddenly, and marvelous to tell, new bees—the racked flesh in its sea
Of signaling molecules continues to move.  Exactly suited to the person, landscapes

Embolden thoughts of death. Beneath outlined lips, the philtrum—a nose
Perpetrates the mille-fleur of memory. Head hanging off a calamitous raft,
Eyes themselves encourage a confidence never owned. Night-growths of chypre—
Rather it would be felled laurels, resurrection plants, stale buttercream flowers—the sting

Of death in exhaled tobacco smoke from apparent hives, if to render the sting
Over what was said—Pricked fingers plaiting a bed of violets.  These cartographic seas
Stirring miserably in a common rain; as if they must suffer accordingly the chypre
Discharged from a neck’s knotted silk. It is obvious one prefers to forget landscapes—
Smooth their broken ways; remit the daily allowance of unchanged caffeine, like pumice rafts
Making island rounds—For those who would receive our intemperate seeds. Of the noses

It is probable only the wisest were deceived. By humidity and hedonic tone, a nose
Rediscovers its purpose. That they should be gained by numbers; but lost in fact, the stings

Answer queries across darkened theater seats. From every economic sector, fragrant rafts
Of untouched bodies after the bed has been aired—Verified in the far sink, completely at sea
Those who overpromise painted leaves—luxuriantly dense—where supplanting hardscape
Is insufficient to recharge a water table. Skin and silence stirred-tank hydrodynamics, chypre

Halts us in human form; and with increasing oakmoss descends. Otherwise, the chypre
May not be the wish of everyone out of the drawbridge of night. Such reckoning, a nose’s
Waist-high walk to a hanged man, or the vanished copse located by a wreck—Landscapes
Are broken up; and trapped in membranous folds—with catalysts, curing agents—few stings
Revive such individuals. Protecting themselves from blows, they bend down to the sea

Only to wash their hands.  Fortified from sight, then what evidence anticipates the raft

Of pollinators returning to the same blooms, if not for the caffeine? Bees rafting
Undulations of raspberry and rape using our laborious attitudes; it was not for a chypre
In human olfactive sense—The coffee flower absorbs them utterly—Among floral seas
Always circular, enclosed, much like their brooding cells—as an arousing nectar. The nose
Appears very flat indeed against the transmission engineering. Incident to stings,
Field lines, and ink left in print recesses, such processes form our personal landscape.
 
Nevertheless, tests would be scored overnight—To consign us to fallen landscapes.
The cornice hive is destroyed for the public interest. A network switches on for rafts
Of incoming mail. Granting that the others be similarly moved, we rely on stings
To identify our affections. That chokingly leather note and crushed flowers of chypre
Granulates slowly on a body arrived breathless and hobbled in footwear.  The nose
Is unclear what sense it is expected to return—Makes no effort to enter heavy seas.

How does a fragile scent prevent these landscapes from combining prematurely; seas
From being crossed? With an induced compass for a nose, my exasperated raft is
Guided to act by a stung pride, by the guarded throat’s chypre until it can speak for itself.