Reynard's Reaction Time

Reynard’s Reaction Time
by Hanz Olson
Chasms pontificate and spill juice; oceans rise.
Giants bearing club trees behead whole hosts
as if earth were open about the poles.
Autochthonic wheels, axle-casings cracked,
impecuniously pedal dactyls through all pools and
portions.
The by-gone buccaneer’s broken pipe hangs from
the wall murmuring adumbratively. Endlessness is
stranger still, devoted to the foolish love and loss of
backpacks. The clamor of compunction counteracts
the equal and opposite force the ground exerts on
you.
Splintered sign, splintered sign, you know a
splintered sign and so you say, “If not today then
one day further away I’ll yet again reunite with it
if established one for me have they may, a lost and
found for the squandered effects that spark a fit to
linger behind.”
Always, so dear time had you not long to own
but entwine to a forgotten assemblage taking part
in a segment of your own illicit soul division, as
after trauma cast. It is now you stand in moment
under pine. Direction is what you need but cannot
find.