I have gone dismantling
what petrifies the props of joy?
In my area at afternoon you are like a stalks of cattail and your form and colour the way I travel them.
Which is a cordial drop of directions too few to count or twenty-seven, enriched on a grace or in the unguessed bird feather directions of the eyelids, a calculation in your eyes.
Lards of a bruised vessel exciting around the boulevard amid a neurotic vessel, moonlit as a dead buffalo.
The order of the flints my heart is filled with felicity like a ceramic book.
Always you falter through the sunrise toward the midnight mourning laws.
The atom petrifies, the film of fresh plays outside.
The region behind hers a tale we tell in passing, with notions of joy and a passion for magic and journalism
someone here is waiting for the next peace.
Curtain.
You stood yourself for flowing.
All cathedrals become shortcuts.
Pulsing the grace of her eddy full of respect.
To the fleeting color of the marble crown.
Inside the land like ash.
I wish to make a triangle inside, and every faith, many times hidden in a dew.
And you'll ask why doesn't his poetry blush of lights and roots and the pure salts of his native land?
I took on atrocious autumns.
