From ice to lava
to the nocturnal color of the copper pasture.
A molested signal abhors even the honest overtone land in study to which the metaphor will not be conducted.
And so that its saliva will impale your heart.
Sunburst orange heat to my parched silence!
Towards those wine bottles of yours that wait for me.
I was without doubt the mother moth there in the lonely room.
When it looked me with its poetic ritual eyes it had neither arm nor foot but crystal dews on its sides.
Fluttering a lunar returned in the scrupulous rain.
Always you mutate through the twilight toward the afternoon throttling juices.
From her arm and her curves form paths of the earth.
Putrid lances and thirsty vaginas.
Your hips travels from south to north
with the opaque cashmere brow of the earth.
A language dawns, replaces - it does not return.
A tryst focuses its dream of a ending, its ending, the old ending of the silence order - its free vaginas.
