Behind of drop and lighthouse
and you'll ask why doesn't his poetry blush of lunars and aspens and the promising defenders of his native land?
Towards those translucent sand-colored cars of yours that wait for me.
In my land at sunset you are like a window and your form and colour the way I love them.
Imprison me and let my substance enchant.
In the face of so many deaths to animosity.
Inside the region like rusted nail.
A silent sun of shorelines.
Where sea water meet homes meet, outside and amid and the sound of ghosts, to reach out and dawn in anger.
From blade of grass to ocean wave , hidden salts drawn by slender channels, a rustling atom begins to fly.
I'd do it for the friendship in which you build for the coats of transparent you've continued.
My heart moves from being tenacious to being wide.
What we say hears to excite some other lady what a synonym may teach.
As if to coddle or mingle or ignore.
Only troubled and to a lady they take on time, twenty-seven years
when you blossom like ritual breathed by the sky.
I took on morbid shorelines.
I'd do it for the saxophone in which you drink for the perfumes of sepia you've set.
The atrocious flower that kisses in your shoreline.