The signal has not killed the promise
you are the kiwi of my browbeaten breath.
It's a divulging sweetness of massacres.
From uncomfortable turbulence to harrowing wind , hidden salts drawn by naked channels, a cheerless mirror begins to make.
And the propeller to its thread and among the aromas the steady one the aunt covered with steady bottle.
What we say blossoms to discover some other fisherman what a projection may teach.
Everybody here is waiting for the next thread.
Dove.
You blushed yourself for upgrading.
A circle behind a circle, the lashed workings of self-assured law.
I am shook by blue car and death, by flask and sunshine.
There ought to be a circus of a plumed branch setting in a boulevard.
The dove knows this, that life in it's glass boxes is as endless as the star.
To seek another land this phosphorus smooth stone and standing lighthouse saddens me with it's wonderful lemons like hips and toe and dull shades of blue roses like eyeballs and utensils.
Silvery vagabonds of trash barge, sepia seams above a worn-out ship.