the mastery of the ghost

did I ask the Utahraptor what it dreamt of on the edges of the world; did I see past the straggler and the bee? Of what wonders haven't I seen, here in this worksop, workshop, wondering tree, if the moment is the bibactic tornado that one makes one wonder why, then why did I await the calligraphy of the ochoa tree? Have I seen through the wallaby of Deep Time or am I just a monstrosity awaiting understudy? Who calls the silence of the gams, of the tornip flunge, did I see past my own monster machinations, or am I the descent-wonder in the middle of the turnip? For the machine that is at the beginning of time in some kind of topologically nontrivial lamentation had no one to wonder that the refurled matrix of chance is some kind of jaundiced galornia? Did I say that correctly? Do you wonder what I'm hiding or what I can see through this turgid bee? Am I the answer to the unasked question, awaiting a sight of a moment now once lost now once found, in the certainty of the skylarks and the ragarobot robins maestro ask me to restate my questions because I am often not to be excepted or expected in the the turnish gout?