Surrealism

Skillet bottom rule-straight prairie releasing a little
To a ripple of sand hills, side-lit

At twilight, called The Palouse. Note again schooling fishes
Nosing the windscreen, uffish

Through the sunroof. Whites pooled at the bottoms of my eyes,
I watch a spiky caudal fin surmise,

Ripple, and disappear. I hate surrealism ,
You say, sullen. How do you feel about nonsense, lissome

One , I rejoin, adding ghogli woolly scrooly lo .
Och, wholly different, family and phylum! you yell, O

You prefer History ... deep History,
The really used to, the true , the facts , austere,

Where the sand hills of the Palouse surippidly rumple on
Like the pink roof of the doggish yawn,

Formed as they were in the outrushing tidal estuary
Of the Mid-Cretaceous Seaway, where

We speak, right here, and above,
To a depth of a hundred feet at least, my scurrily love.
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