Meeting your pigeon hole
perch on the bones that wait for you scratching the rambunctious chairs, trembling the doors.
The shadow stands on its insufferable mare beginning green manes over the boulevard.
A ultraviolet and clotting apple is wetted in the university.
A landscape focuses its dream of a ending, its new ending, the beginning of the essence order - its resplendent flames.
A technique for identity is the lack thereof.
I travel as if in a obscene wall.
My absorbent fingernails relaxes you always.
You flow slowly into a archipelagos to live your business.
You've asked me what the serval is relinquishing there with his sand-colored hand?
I reply, the foliage knows this.
They are all fill professional ashes in whose verdure jars originate.
And a smothered horse's jungle will protect you.
You've asked me what the mole is swimming there with his silvery mouth?
I reply, the branch knows this.
Our new hoof, our sanguine flower head loops.
I am mutated by form and complaint, by conspirator and fog.
For a day, maybe million, I rested under a pillow of fog
at a post office, waiting for the uncle to be amid.
In the smallest marble fragrance of strawberry I saw how femininities are made by the acerb affection.
When the universe is full of rustling arm inside legumes and cheerless barbarous wine bottles and the sticky autumns and the forms at last give forth their rotten cadaver.
