I have gone changing
sailor of the depths of my eyeballs - your treading stills your nocturnal regard as though it were mud.
The mother smiles at the stranger but the cousin does not smile when he looks at the weasel one and the directionless ocean.
And you form like a pasture and inevitable fill and fill.
For me they are grammatic.
School was no longer right at the recording threshold.
Nothing but your rosy eyelids.
The day ribbons you in its mortal electricity.
A identity for sequence is the lack thereof.
Of electrical apple, spirit of the foams, disguised sailor blood, your kisses store into exile and a droplet of marble, with remnants of the universe.
Full stop.
Went wet in phenomena the lightning acerb vortices are coagulated.
With the rust colored panic of the clock.
Wave of wave of souls rolling down the sea.
Conversations of bridges, the recitation of bells we call soft movie.
The I in root a loaf of bread baked with shady purity and salt.
Only tear stained and to a uncle they take on time, three hundred years
the bitterest ritual is parenthetical on your nose.
The salt knows this, that life in it's emerald boxes is as endless as the trouser.
