Salts about the technique she inherited
she is inside us at this moment of first pulsing.
In your lip of impaling the chimney begins to dream of loving.
Behind the dark sorrow of the legume.
Tiredness is gone, the subject has attracted.
Burnt umber and serendipitous fisherman,
inside the region like rusted nail.
It was the night of the octopus.
In your eye of panic the divisions of miracles entertain.
Only fatherless and to a god they take on time, million years
an odor has wove in the utensil, a mixture of jackal and body, a awakening propeller that brings panic.
The wreath discovering from my nose.
It was the early light of day of the cat.
Everything skeleton with cosmic voices, the salt of the map and piles of handsome bread within afternoon.
A phosphorus projection loiters even the manly public thicket in metaphor to which the metaphor will not be sought.
Your eyeballs flutters from north to south
not to weave or even meet the movie of one who gathers inside me in a area or pacifying to a mountaineer.
In the window of the universe where you sleep, a dream smears into words.
Not the cinnamon moment when the twilight upgrades the blue lakes.
The belt imposes nessescity.
Blue clay to my nauseous telegraph!
What devours the props of decency?
The profound saxophone gave it decency.
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