Lotion

Tough holds, lotion to the rescue grease lubricating moving parts gears and steel arms nuts and bolts pulleys moving, moving, moving, going somewhere coming, coming all the time back from the future tomorrow or the day after keeping in mind all of every moment that was yesterday left-handed listicles and guitars strings strung upside down with beads in a row and then the feathers of tie-and-dye dreams on walls mushrooms and kaleidoscope patterns broken bits of glass and diamonds bits of lightning and paper mirrors glasses equilateral triangle sixty degrees one too many times a day tired fists and wrists rolls of paper smell of the white of egg in the wet, wet, wet sea or the pregnant clouds and then the faint smell of dead fish in the desert thick hard dry crust of cake like rust ferrous oxide washed with kerosene or some say butter helps too when you are walking away from the seventy-third word of the last poem read in reverse and how they wish that it were a palindrome but it ends with an announcement that it is an anagram in kilogram and metric tons going skating on roller wheels and blades held clutched in place by the clip of the safety razor smelling fresh aftershave of the deep blue sea pepper and herbs of the forest where it rains lightbulbs and oil pastel stubs of radiant radium numerals on the face of a clock glowing in the night like the eyes of a cat in surrounding darkness inside a deflated football that struggles to breathe in between goal-posts with slippery outer skin leather slimy wet in falling rain of this summer that could have been spring had they cared to look carefully but then, but then