Showing my cards I leave some change,
while my lover & swimmer leads me to a postmodern workshop,
a sure bet ad infinitum.
He smiles with an expression that never doubts my bluffing knowhow & innocence
... I keep raising our minds at the oceanfront, a replenisher, bringing it all back.

Trash is egghead poetics, boiled down beneath better trash that has a value P (portent) inside, spoken sotto voce stipulating processed conditions to make up — practice making perfect sleep time.  

Transition Days. Disabused of crayons to create a hint of scalability.  First step. Leaking or semi-announcing utopic content, replacing sleep we witness on the escalator.   

Go to the next line.