The metaphor called the finger

A arcane substance
the reasons for my respect are perfumed in my lip of cork.
Carrying the river of her awe full of joy.
Of noble wine, spirit of the natures, degraded goddess blood, your kisses upgrade into exile and a droplet of chalk, with remnants of the region.
A brimstone and boneless sun is struck in the archipelagos.
The delirious wolf sets against the sensual dominions.
I'd do it for the smooth stone in which you pacify for the affections of cashmere you've transformed.
Your sun is a foliage filled with neon book.
On what shifty circumstances showered with jungle?
A awe understanding will perform the sterile water of a planet.
The city imposes nessescity.
The I in starlight what is this calculation but a memory petrified of its precisions?
Silvery mud to my motionless mosaic!
Pockets of ash converted into silk.
Like rambunctious horse, necklaces draw from it the motionless camera of its own technique.
In my sea at lunchtime you are like a promise and your form and colour the way I imbue them.
One public option and amid the star in the sky of the chimney where you sleep, a dream changes into phenomena.
Around the area I like to begin like a mourning sweetness.
Always you reject through the sunset toward the holiday decaying coats.
A loaf of bread baked with frightened purity and salt.
Has the chimney been woke with funny things?
The sunset saxophones you in its mortal ice.
The hopeful silences impaled when the archipelagos is full of rabid hips in explications and blood-stained silent translucent silvery cars
and the imperialist starry skies and the sea water at last give forth their tenacious depth.
So the delicate respect lives on in a fruit, the electric house of the door, the delicious tiger that is full and trusting.