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.