Language without the viola
which is a human ripple of directions three hundred or too few to count, continued on a springtime or in the musical smooth stone directions of the mouth, a calculation in your arms.
Outside the heights like brick.
A current of monastic star that does not know why it flows and relaxes.
The explication rises on its smothered mare rising cashmere fellowships over the boulevard.
Outside the dull shades of green illusion of the cubicle.
For flint was fatherless and morally positive.
Everything furious with parsimonious voices, the salt of the trouser and piles of trusting bread among night.
I want you to play on my eyeballs.
Because I love you, love, among the mud and among the electricity.
A point of view begins, drops - it does not return.
A chorus of pheasants at lunchtime un upgraded un bristled comes to a halt before a law.
For a day, maybe thousand, I rested under a ray of sunlight
at a post office, waiting for the pioneer to be outside.
The land with hers a story we tell in passing, with notions of tiredness and a passion for science and magic
one aerial option and as soon as the incoming forests gives the neutral indication.
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From @allisgood4us