Sitting on a huge tuft, I look at things:
Big River is blue paint on the left and shimmery black rock on the right.
I look at it.
A cloud is a huge crown, another cloud is a pelican.
I look at them.
A tiny pig emerges from Big River.
I look at it.
The ground puffs into green flames beneath me.
I look at it.
Dinosaurs hover over the water.
I look at them.
Smaller dinosaurs have a corporate meeting on the other side of Big River.
I look at them.
The sharpest desk in the world appears on the rocks.
I look at it.
Houses ride a water slide down into Big River.
I look at them.
Huge buttocks flutter in the wind.
I look at them.
My kneecaps are removed by the tiny pig.
I look at it.
The tiny pig returns to Big River.
I look at them, together.
Philip, if I've learned anything from you at Bram, it's to never let anyone remove your kneecaps, especially pigs. I'm surprised that you would allow such terrible deeds, although it gives the poem a nice edge.
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