At my door

At my door after the very soon of a little while ago comes running along the creepers and climbers that speak good things about the coracles floating on lake surfaces carrying a backpack full of books and a fountainpen that leaks at the neck of oxygen cylinders growing near trees hanging fruit apples and cherries that are not orange with erasers and double-black pencils sharpened like a needle feeding on minutes and hours of the age of youth or of innocence little lumps of incense burning smoke running like snakes shaking the rattles at their tails wagging tails and barking dogs eating little square biscuits sweetened with brown-sugar crystals and butter and a few spices too pound and powdered added to the dough even though it’s not the Friday of a ripe July yet just because it is the seventh month waving its indigo flag in the northern wind smelling like vanilla pods in a pale shade of green checked towels squares of red and pink alternating like Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays knocking on the doors of the houses of butchers with no ventilation or windows and balloons filled with breath of diamond dioxide spinning wheels and windmills of the gods of a new empire or a system of belief in laboratories of chemistry or physical science showing no signs of weakness or dissatisfaction for sliding glass doors that move in thin metal railings destiny fate at the rate of movement of the gates flying men with superpowers on this side of the battlefield eating fried chicken and roasted earrings crunchy munchy punched in the nose along the bridge that connects the tip of a nose with the edge of the upper lip with or without a moustache toothbrush of fairly thick yet soft hair