Let's say

your mouth hurts, so you escape from October by means of a thin wire looped several times around a blue beam that was balanced three years ago across a stern fulcrum somebody brown anchored in a favorite field thirteen miles from the county seat, the wind blowing back blazes, the clouds catching up mountains by their peaks and dragging them toward the sea which is dipping here into wine cups and spilling brisk brine on tablecloths that certainly used to be nicely ironed, tidy people assert, even though such cloths have, in the long trek across the continent, been on more than one occasion stretched over a sick infant when the sun was unfriendly, perverse even, driven by the insistence of an unholy rhyme.