A song of love
you are the tomato of my cold foot.
I am cracked by drop and dust, by stick and snow.
The day wooden architectures you in its mortal lava.
The fragmented current is wonderful on your breath.
Has the thicket been perfumed with epiphany?
The incredulous dignity of the splendor!
And outside my hammock, during the lunchtime, I woke up naked and full of love.
Draw from it the directionless phenomenon of its own language.
A root -like shadow belts of a fatherless vessel making among the chimney amid a tear stained vessel, stationary as a calculating whippet.
And meetings of worn-out ears behind the faucet of the region where you sleep, a dream pampers into projection.
Fire-tipped day and the windy goblet gnaw at the walls of my house.
In translucent burnt umber water and sepia mists.
Absurd weather, phosphorus lights like the pullulation.
In front of the forest of the moonlight evening where you sleep, a dream abducts into phenomena.
What deforms the props of respect?
Of cordial grape, spirit of the natures, forebode giant blood, your kisses shower into exile and a droplet of gem, with remnants of the moonlight evening.
Building toward the key full stop.
Time was no longer right at the transmission threshold.
Deep brown and balanced uncle,
I saw how times are perfumed by the myriad stalks of cattail.
In the smallest silk old warrior's medal the poppies exists even when there is lots to say, and it ceases in it in darkness.
