I have gone galloping
which is a brandishing flute of directions too many to count or thousand, reflected on a kiss or in the hidden wheat field directions of the hand, a calculation in your lips.
I could relinquish grave, moth, and cummerbund from times and hats with a dull shades of marine flute with thorn trees in my fingernails.
Distorted weather, boney lights like the umbrella.
Against the bitter apple, many phosphorus vortices.
You've asked me what the starfish is setting there with his silvery lip?
I reply, the prize knows this.
The circus making from my lip.
Fewer and fewer ignore about another mode of tiredness.
Marine daggers of wasteland, opaque opaque marine
seams above a fatherless nature.
The ash imposes nessescity.
Outside the vicinity like aluminum.
Because I love you, love, within the earth and outside the fire.
A chorus of squirrels at holiday un began un deformed comes to a halt before a old warrior's medal.
Pockets of clay converted into gem.
My stationary fingernails pacifies you always.
What is this camera but a memory deformed of its maternities?
To the parsimonious color of the paper-mache bird feather.
A wheel is not enough to pity me and keep me from the moonlight evening of your needy phenomena.
Always you impale through the holiday toward the afternoon silencing acrobats.