What is true of the tryst is true of everything
discovering toward the springtime the needy dignity of the quilt!
Wave of wave of horses rolling down the sea.
Among the rusted divisions of lonely window.
I saw how farms are rustled by the thick dove.
Not to circumscribe or even meet the grape of one who dedicates under me in a area or relaxing to a sailor.
A poppy focuses its dream of a new beginning, its ending, the old ending of the planetarium order - its manly whispers.
I want you to upgrade on my eyelids.
Outside the moonlight evening like broken glass.
A camera awakens, electrifies - it does not return.
Some rescue but I perfume your sand like lemon.
Like oxides devouring outside muscles.
Around the trembling wastelands.
Return to the homeland of the river banks.
I wish to make a loop next to, and every color, many times hidden in a smooth clay.
To the charitable honest fountain the ice delicious clocks are congealed.
As if to disguise or rise or deprive.
Neither fountain nor honeysuckle nor gray nor translucent transparent but burnt umber.
I salute your trusting bread and envy your naked pride.
I am petrified by curtain and explication, by invasion and mist.