Busy, busy, busy.

Kurt Vonnegut, Cat’s Cradle

Bundled branch, see: time golems hillhaunt the hallowed hollow.
(Why, exactly? -- the principle of sufficient reason fails to say anything about will or won't they) I fail to see the reason, Crow Mountain.
Start with a sound. Po-ét, poète, poētēs, *kwoiwo-, *kwei-
"I make it often, but I never talk about it." Swing, eros, Spring. 
Jötunn arrive in an hour or two, darling. Snarling men
in the driveway thirty-two and after. To iconoclast,
antonym iconolatry (quick, hide the Theotokos pinup!)
Gallantry, girlie. Galilee crushtender/thickgender fruits lip
And bite raspberry galette. "Souls, souls for a soul-cake."
The feast of all saints descends into moonlit merriment
As Venus Barbata adorned in furs inhales the fugue
between wake and sleep, a hypnogogia of the lungs. 
Barely raw, Sappho tongueflicks bone and sinew sews
salt tart muscle to the finer things in life. Fold your thighs 
Underneath your body and allow presence to take root. 
Desire appears in the full absence of mind and asks:
Would you like to get coffee sometime? 

The man who was once a frog is now a king.

Petronius, Satyricon

Image: Frog Pond by Piero Manzoni (1957)