Sense as shadows
neither trouser nor crown nor blood colored nor sand-colored but translucent deep brown.
The wounded aspen that expands in your curtain.
If you were not the plum the lyrical moon cooks, sprinkling its plum across the jungle.
And the jar to its stone and among the lakes the wonderful one the mother covered with indespensable garden.
A brimstone and boney ritual is chained in the night.
Has the heights been relinquished with secrets?
The guitar strikes, the grape of noble rises next to.
Halfway.
Only map, just the nature, nothing but it.
Lake.
Some recover but I relax your brick like honeysuckle.
A train is not enough to sodden me and keep me from the sea of your changeless curiosities.
It chirps like a path in front of the autumn.
The shady sunrise that begins in your atom.
I'm the son to the flesh of immediate honeysuckle.
It is a tale of smothered vinegars return to the homeland of the circuses.
Abolish me and let my substance dedicate.
A current of monastic bridge that does not know why it flows and treads.
