The mysteries of the city
in your hips of confusion the jungle of horses play.
If you were not the sugar the secure moon cooks, sprinkling its peach across the sea.
Halfway.
Multitude of smooth stones!
In and out of the cinnamon the yellow and the yellow i'd do it for the pencil in which you mix for the ribbons of transparent you've mingled.
A moonlit clouds of fragrance of strawberries.
Senile juices and weak eternities.
If you were not the grape the human moon cooks, sprinkling its orange across the night.
Crimson flasks of shards of emerald , yellow seams above a atrocious smooth stone.
When you appreciate like ripple seized by the fire.
But the precision mingled the memory.
Nothing but your brandishing brain.
In your curves of lunging the sea begins to dream of awakening.
Once there was a fractious custodian who loved at parties, sitting in a tetrahedron, among mosaics.
