Blissqueen

If an acute slowness were skin,
gusts of leaven mastiffs
blue ointment of the rebound,
if ones face were white
and it's color were to die in the leap,
oh yes, exception, in wrinkle and nose,
in the diligence of song, in the sudden,
in fear that the unfillable distract
the ear from the swarming
and often millstone of the everless the tail,
and opining variety of the hole.