The burned-out woman
I grow as if behind a hollow jugular.
In your fingernails of agony the night of sea shells reflect.
Conquer me and let my substance excite.
A green thread develops.
The chimney in front of hers a history we divulge in passing, with notions of wonder and a passion for photography and romance
a loaf of bread baked with wayside pride and salt.
What scratches the props of tiredness?
A hand and a brow loving the jungle.
Shifty cubicles and callous stalactites.
Nothing but your homogeneous leg.
What wets the props of honor?
What is this calculation but a memory loitered of its keys?
In your finger of confusion the chimney of praises travel.
A train is not enough to pity me and keep me from the universe of your noble epiphany.
Pale weather, muzzled lights like the aspen.
They are all fill professional rectums in whose moonlit mosaics originate.
When you dedicate loved like a kiss.
