Sugar Pawns

by John Pursch

Ants bark before rocky branches lift the flowing scrunch of cool hands and smiling African friends, clapping a glove at looming veins. Yellow petals mail pale blue legs to quail hatcheries, freaking into wobbling tanks of warmth, grafting lucidity to falling leaflets. Shuddering brakes caress a torrid emblem’s worthy gazebo, spilling blotchy instep seasons into brown melodies. Hooded nuances moisten a ladder’s envious plop, startling a hydrant, creasing the trammeled milk run’s throttled shack. Sectarian sugar pawns offhand stirrups for propositioned hawks, resting aural egrets on lusty cartels, nixing a cratered wheel’s flexible nib. Continual grain leakage peers about engraving skit mews, chiding a gratifying inch, heckling the pram’s precious, hefty virago. Uncommon zeal purloins the boon’s oily berm, sanding under blip machines, singing dirigible arias to hexed cargo fans, moaned in a medical key.