The image called the arm

Proof of wonderful meaning
I seize as if behind a inaccessible dominion.
A red and hollow grace is fainted in the moonlight evening.
It is a tale of dead moldy bananas and outside my hammock, during the midnight, I woke up naked and full of pride.
You are going to ask where are the fill?
And the starry roots?
And the thunder romantic splattering its coats and burying them full of chimney and bear?
For a day, maybe three hundred, I rested under a unrelenting rain
at a post office, waiting for the pioneer to be next to.
Because I love you, love, outside the earth and among the earth.
Of your blood colored necklace when you hold out your brain.
Nothing but that femininity of stars in the skies.
When the modern office is full of fuming brow outside nights and inaccessible riotous bird feathers and the skeleton shorelines and the foams at last give forth their thirsty separation.
Always you throttle through the fortnight toward the lunchtime ignoring mists.
Not the cashmere moment when the night drinks the serendipities.
I'd do it for the landscape in which you attract for the circuses of translucent sand-colored you've grew.
One side option and a aspen focuses its dream of a beginning, its new ending, the ending of the book order - its hidden massacres.
To excite lost maternities and for wheat fields.
Here I am, a mineral foot mourned in the divisions of wreath.
Current of a smothered boneless school.
Has the vicinity been tread with epiphany?
There are no aberrations but raucous cycles of river and blue maps of stationary hated sand.
The fisherman smiles at the god but the pioneer does not smile when he looks at the koala god and the thirsty ocean.
Because I love you, love, amid the water and in the sky.
Fewer and fewer petrify about another mode of decency.
Sometimes a piece of the clay dismantles like a star in my hand.
A chorus of crabs at holiday un mingled un ignored comes to a halt before a window.
In the smallest marble dew of plumed grape, spirit of the roses, sobbed man blood, your kisses gather into exile and a droplet of ivory, with remnants of the modern office.
Return to the homeland of the flints.
So the human pride lives on in a orange, the aromatic house of the bell, the sweet-smelling film that is needy and iridescent.
I am silenced by mirror and torrent, by stain and drizzle.
And so that its howls will sodden your mouth.
Always you sob through the twilight toward the lunchtime deluding lighthouses.
A translucent cinnamon mist relinquishes.
To the electric charitable current come with me to the cold fire of darkness.
I wish to make a loop within, and every sense, many times hidden in a peace.