THE PRIME SLOUGH OF FROG DOUGH

As soon as my birch-leaf spine can finish with the muriatic cloud left boiling on a lash of wet silver coiled like a birth window over the prime slough of frog dough, half eaten by the outer eagle of toy beds, it will be one who walks with a secret ear to seek out and neutralize yellow wallpaper fads in glaciers where revelation animates the spider's green and white glove worn by the cloth panther.