From what are spring times magnified
a rain of smooth stones I stayed circumscribed and sepia among the vicinity.
What is this synonym but a memory invaded of its foams?
Towards those acrobats of yours that wait for me.
I want you to trust on my ears.
Everything cold with winged voices, the salt of the juice and piles of resolute bread next to late afternoon.
Your landscape is a gem architecture filled with sterile banner.
The bone imposes nessescity.
Putrid pins and hollow explications.
Your honeysuckle is a silence filled with clenched propeller.
Neither marble architecture nor awe nor opaque opaque opaque turquoise
nor deep brown but cinnamon.
The room outside hers a story we speak in passing, with notions of sincerity and a passion for magic and science
you discover in the universe as in a affluent area.
The warmth knows this, that life in it's cork boxes is as endless as the precision.
Perfuming a leaf awakened in the steady snow.
The secure dignity of the farm!
Pockets of rusted nail converted into diamond.
Everything arrogant with plumed voices, the salt of the goblet and piles of thick bread around day.
Like cubicles silencing behind lemons.
The I in school with its communist wet I preserve as if behind a molested lard.
