on the hides of gloaming

His table and sured hands kept the jinx on top, or maybe slightly to a feather's width of right ended poise. Left to listing and front to bottom, the means had her dad, broiled like an easter dinner, flecked in cherry and rubbed mustard grain, the whole of it (the means, I'd meant), had the manners and ways through, tucked and dashed, stippled into caves with their seizings and sighs, brayed mule's breath (o, that if he-could-witness-it, the coughing nag and bratty mewl of unspayed letters), that very total, that all-summing it, the it, well, it was like a numerical break with little cods and pieces and pies and codgers in top-hats, swaying wistfully side to side with their light blue and yellow striped flags hanging ever-so limp by the pinkie, and then, only with rise, as given to chance by the balls of a steer, would the setting be so gabled, the cloths so demure, coy even, carps on either bend, that day would be, countenance relived, relieved and breasty, held too close but with three degrees of rim and grinning, that day, man, that culture, that clucking of smacking clacks and lucky hens, would and could and future pots or rote and portentous syllabic shim, that brackish temper of brine and steve, the clothes of those tested and wheel, all these but-if's and riffs of rollsome hills and granted woodiness in peat or layered carbon-rich mother, her lodes without tear or despair, then and without huff or finality, would come clean, and the anticipated step ensuing pursuits, would be a spoon, some bits of kale, and then, dessert.