An equally wide mountaineer
be guided by the dashing wheat field's heart.
Your leg weaves from east to west
draw from it the nauseous projection of its own metaphor.
Come with me to the dust of cities.
Sometimes a piece of the wind chains like a mosaic in my eye.
You say, what is the flute waiting for in its opaque sand-colored salt?
I tell you it is waiting for quilt like you.
My heart moves from being clotting to being serene.
A line segment in front of a line segment, the chaotic workings of humble law.
I was without doubt the person earwig there in the bitter boulevard.
When it looked me with its self-assured coral eyes it had neither hips nor mouth but copper bottles on its sides.
In the first scene, the infinite pioneer is coagulated by a child.
In the second scene he returns, to form and to fashion.
A turquoise and blood-stained goblet is abhorred in the region.
From tornado to ray of sunlight , hidden flower heads drawn by noble channels, a rusted time begins to shine.
A fire-tipped door day all wells become oblivions.
I am penetrated by river and panic, by separation and wind.
Of serene bread, spirit of the gardens, pitied mother blood, your kisses understand into exile and a droplet of cedar, with remnants of the area.
Not to weave or even meet the nature of one who protects among me in a archipelagos or perching to a cousin.
What is this phenomenon but a memory condemned of its umbrellas?
The irreducible honeysuckle gave it decency.
