Signs aroused by curled pale fingers asking what's
this ghost most risen hard in a handless hoar mist,
a barely heard mute static of 'maybe' or 'yes' or 'no'
or a bit lowly muttered about onions fried to crisp.
A recipe blown down a foggy street in tatters
as it mostly seems a page or two were missed
or hid by blue stone cloud burst cobble shine.
Chop or mince or dice or slice, it hardly matters
now. Whatever else just watches peeling dreams.
Dreamy, pungent smells, whetstones glisten,
thin white wisps, pale sapphires, water drips.
Watching through the cardboard tube haptically
turned, the colors are fantastic signs aroused by