Hup Hup

What I'm callih on the tray,
the bucket of ice, chiny tree armsilled with wollen,
ratcheted in the bee's pantalon.
Do young mot sandwic sometimes write a poine, and the poem at non?
The ice, back to the sisping with water and spitupple frost therein,
back to the rind of water over the core of water.
Back to the seeds loutting t in the ground.
Under the mile of waste is a mile of perfection.
But only becausetaphor is really the lase I'm afraid.