Once in a garden flora and fawn
would dig the Crockadillim.
Sentences ran like deer through herbs,
word tractors mulched the adjectival grass
and noun succulent Poematoes soared.
Flummoxed with Linguistamus
they stalked up like points of stars.
Anybody’s spade could dig it then
though it’s better to wait till rain,
but when hypnoconstrictor decay
mucked up the tongue
the body of Poemato past
roto-tilled its berm.
Farmer Whitewash hugged his chloroplasts
like dreamless flesh
and double Chronomonitor ran
Octopot air for metered men.
The garden was a given,
but how did Atman prune?
Atman, we call him Adam,
spoke the speech forgot,
pruned trees with that saw, the grass cut word,
the verb-clipped vine, the vine-loved grass
that loved trees rejoiced as one
propagated as todayn
in invented leaf, no separate mind.
Trilling “r” became a plow,
uvulars a shovel.
What difference was a mower then
but the ask of a tongue?
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