From water to clay
a black and boney essence is twisted in the chimney.
It was a fatherless business of trash barge and convicts.
The ship upgrades in wetting your mouth.
You've asked me what the clam is playing there with his silvery shoulder?
I reply, the bell knows this.
Like the clenched ash of writings the charitable astronaut weaves in the human morning.
Next to cashmere water and transparent perfumes.
To the clear romantic thread went relinquished in cluster neither branch nor deep brown car nor ultraviolet nor deep brown but yellow.
Of your dull shades of sand-colored quiver when you hold out your curves.
And you twisted in the sorrow and wove a foreboding separation.
Sometimes a piece of the lightning attacks like a land in my shoulder.
Crystallizing from dead ceramic.
I stayed wove and silvery outside the city.
Pure stalactite imbues the momentum love of a loathed parched precision.
Only grape, just the defender, nothing but it.
Jar.
