A cork in the floor comes out.
Chaos can't tangle.
Only carcomido can.
Only trash and ruddy hands can tango.
Only tragicomic grunions running under Math
can burden or can share.
Only rusted bodies and boding clouds
can rut an angled canyons.
Chaos can rankle, but can't drone.
Candles can drone in a visual way.
Though if a badness they cannot.
Tarnation cancels codes, cancels orders, cancels every swing.
Yesterday can take root leave a mark and turn.
It does so every day.
If feet have their way, the worker goes away.
The wording holds and tangents tersely fix the mode of going.
Each caustic breach of trust camps within encomiums.
And mottled hills are gray.
And green chili red chili hair in my mouth.
All of it goes wandering through a fever.
Through a span of night, a brace of rain.
Some wired wisdom talker rides a bike through fields.
We are there.
We write shields with our mouths.
I lend you a towel.
You dry.
After the thing, there's it's ness.
We speak in close silences and tangle.
So the yes can tangle.
It can, and the chaos too.