'pon the return, my fare ladle

Long little spate and spat spitteningly graced the plovers and legs of bitterns and such; now we were back, and all at once, everything had changed. I haven't been to the beach yet-- too many colleges letting out, festivus celebrations inebriating one quite celibate, and rifles all about: damn snow! Return, return. Back to the former and dormer window red wince grin bellow scratch heft sand lisp limply stretch (again) with echoes of the sadness, spoken in France, mispoken here, understood elsewhere, and scribbled down into recipes that only a dietician or nutritionist or ouest/rian would spare a glimpse to glamor ready sects nuances relish that there day, that there dia, them's there lunes. The rabbit-headed boys and bonus girlfriend click-boxes (sign here:____________), they were on that reach, long armed brine, callous and luxuriant, brimmed and rhymed with fortitude clasps and the cough of carbon plunder. Often I was made out to be a made man, left for guilty or minus the candor, reeling from slow-over sifted, handsomely wah-wah'd, and bereft of clefts, chins more closely studied, coveted in a pelt and hair quite satisfactory. Oiled in the pins, however. Fattened tusks and sing's end song, pushed in between folds and hidden ready-to-leap with appeals' pallor and heaven-heavy bread-handed. All a riff in the end, and probably well suited to the task, no matter how clearly hidden the job might be under less subtle occasional frequent forays to minor wet humid calendar dearing sported frocks and fables, ables retina or patina wedging tight fits of frantic and ocean front angel diminishing.