Gallimaufry

Gallimaufry Your sandals make a strange mixing sound, As we step together down this shadowy path, Past the innumerable tufts of sprygen weed, Where old farmers once hoofed to the music Of the Elkhorns, and the Spitters. We will soon eat from their generous platters, Abandoned in the ice houses south of Belchork. Piled high with sugared meats and bitter olives. We will sit in plush lacquered chairs there, Chairs of sandlewood, and mystic topaz. We will be staring into each other’s eyes, Globular orbs of azure fascinations, Seeking unspoken permission to stare yet more, But as an encore, at a pair of different eyes. We will embrace behind sheer curtains of lapis lazuli, Inside the vestibule with lotioned legs dangling. We will move in infinite slowness, We will seek the absolute devotions, Of the shadow dances there. We will listen to the singing sirenic voices Of the Elkhorns and the Spitters, Beckoning us with their spiral gyrations, As sparkling mineral water is shared in goblets, Encrusted with peridot and citrin. We will at last find profound discovery, Concealed within their mad enticings. Proceed quietly, shh! Your sandals are noisy, As we step together down this shadowy path, Past the ice houses at Belchork, Our lives and our consenting atoms Enmeshed and entwined forever, with The innumerable tufts of sprygen weed.