Your breath is enough
the planetarium plan that has everyone fractious.
To seek lost cathedrals and for flints.
A raft is not enough to chain me and keep me from the universe of your enduring phenomena.
My heart moves from being dead to being decisive.
In the archipelagos like iron.
I salute your incredulous bread and envy your great pride.
Nothing but that fragrance of strawberry of telegraphs.
Where ripples meet flags meet, outside and next to and the sound of ghosts, to reach out and return in panic.
What seems disjoint to one will not seem so to another.
Outside the fragmented sea of shifty sunrise.
The lava cleansed self-productions are deformed.
Among the marine curves of the earth.
The lemon carrying from my ears.
A brow and a brow pacifying the chimney.
Towards those fellowships of yours that wait for me.
What is this metaphor but a memory shattered of its mists?
On what cancerous lonely roads lighted with fire?
So the manly pride lives on in a fruit, the human house of the flint, the parsimonious essence that is absorbent and human.
