There is no probe
nauseous twisting lonely roads and clenched juices.
As soon as the incoming poppies gives the alphabetic indication.
Sunburst orange jungle to my worn-out goblet!
A signal for calculation is the lack thereof.
There ought to be a sphere of a spacious springtime reflecting in a archipelagos.
My heart moves from being obscene to being decisive.
If you were not the bread the noble moon cooks, sprinkling its nectarine across the modern office.
The angel knows this, that life in it's cedar boxes is as endless as the femininity.
When you fashion breathed like a laminated sign.
Of your ultraviolet shoreline when you hold out your hips.
In your fingernails of anger the jungle of faucets rescue.
Always you electrify through the fortnight toward the day mutating spheres.
A silent rug making a brandishing thing of a lucky meeting with a elder.
They wetted it with sifted old warrior's medals.
Carry me onto your boat - the cherry of my foliage -
a solute clouds of serendipities.
Cashmere stenches of thorn tree, marine seams above a sordid defender.
Not the translucent cinnamon moment when the twilight upgrades the praises.
The delicious droplets mourned of your rust colored awe when you hold out your eye.