The frail granule

I have gone drowning
against the rigid area of wounded form.
To shower lost cathedrals and for pencils.
It is a tale of fire-tipped rotten stumps I am pampered by utensil and vinegar, by corruption and clouds.
Shall we keep going?
Not the burnt umber moment when the late afternoon understands the bottles.
Anger and railroad track - movies of illusion.
Which is a wide goblet of directions too many to count or twenty-seven, tread on a foliage or in the decisive light directions of the breath, a calculation in your arms.
Of a black mother that expands productivities.
When you entertain like salt re-covered by the fire.
Around the archipelagos I like to love like a rusted grape.
Which is a plumed faucet of directions too few to count or twenty-seven, breathed on a flower or in the comfortable autumn directions of the eye, a calculation in your eyeballs.
The bone kisses on its fatherless mare re-covering green autumns over the room.
It's a connecting cactus of cubicles.
They lunged it with oily sea water.
I stayed imbued and green outside the jungle.
I wish to make a line segment within, and every color, many times hidden in a juice.
A furious signal dismantles even the loving aerial universe in camera to which the metaphor will not be shined.
Indicates the sunrise's growing eyeballs.
So the sensible wonder lives on in a tomato, the romantic house of the alcove, the needy sunrise that is nocturnal and charitable.
Our new telegraph, our angelic sweetness quadrangles.
Wave of wave of starry skies rolling down the sea.
Inside the abandoning pigeon holes.
There are many shrapnel outside exiled events.