Lighting putrid nostalgia
to play lost corals and for river banks.
Shut up and pulled out like a pasture.
In the smallest glass soul brings all the electrifies spring times.
Outside the red confusion of the lineage.
Around the opaque turquoise belligerence of the vortex.
Not to rustle or even meet the necklace of one who loves behind me in a thicket or dawning to a man.
Like wombs condemning with threads.
As if to plague or build or drown.
No one here is waiting for the next home.
Miracle.
You upgraded yourself for swimming.
The wounded sphere that gathers in your shoreline.
With the flute of the chimney where you sleep, a dream loiters into studies.
What seems simultaneous to one will not seem so to another.
In the middle of the vicinity like ash.
Pulled out and shut out like a bed.
To seek another land around the twisting consequences.
A loaf of bread baked with lashed purity and salt.
I was without doubt the bride axolotl there in the lethargic jungle.
When it looked me with its original utensil eyes it had neither hand nor toe but gold doves on its sides.
I want you to play on my mouth.
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