generous superlatives

The autogenous of my marbles
seems an exoteric arrangement
of some bon mot, a glassy minefield
from some ocular spinet
with a dyad of small she-she’s
blocking passage to the espresso machine.
There’s something conspicuously worth noticing
in this stretch, don’t ask me how or what for,
it’s just what a diviner may have said
about my future, when stirring up
the cosmos in a cup of Earl Grey.
Publishing sentience sentences
and nibbling on pink frosting.
Oh, I made sense of what he said
unquestionably, about three years later.
Which, in itself, sounds a bit Alice
what, with the talking rabbit and all.

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