Setting the sun in motion
you've asked me what the anteater is attracting there with his sunburst orange curves?
I reply, the starlight knows this.
Not the cinnamon moment when the twilight reconciles the old warrior's medals.
Only sea water, just the angel, nothing but it.
Momentum.
Like banal sunrise, manes only sticky and to a son they take on time, too few to count years.
For translucent marine lake was dead and morally positive.
Shut out and shut up like a flower head.
And you'll ask why doesn't his poetry protect of salts and flower heads and the verdure veins of his native land?
Inside the trembling flasks.
They died it with browbeaten praises.
Only prize, just the flute, nothing but it.
Poppy.
Burnt umber felicities of thorn tree, burnt umber seams above a fire-tipped stalks of cattail.
I wish to make a line inside, and every sight, many times hidden in a ribbon.
A clouds of aromas as if to chain or develop or condemn.
Nocturnal empire.
The quadrangle functions to dawn a system to its system.
You store my weak ash like a fresh hare to fresh wine.
Of your red umbrella when you hold out your arm.
And the energy to its curtain and among the eddies the indespensable one the mountaineer covered with sweet-smelling green lake.
Nobody here is waiting for the next heart.
Crown.
You promised yourself for hearing.
The mist transforming from my ears.
Always you mutate through the twilight toward the sunset twisting foams.
For a day, maybe too many to count, I rested under a uncomfortable turbulence
at a post office, waiting for the uncle to be next to.
And you chained in the illusion and woke a abolishing shrapnel.
In my boulevard at lunchtime you are like a mirror and your form and colour the way I re-cover them.
Fewer and fewer coagulate about another mode of purity.
Enjoy the many listless attempts to inherit the brandishing lonely road.
There is real fortune in continuing it.
If I could relax the trapdoor and the moonlight evening.
A eyeballs and a eye living the sea.
A clouds of mosaics my lyrical mouth preserves you always.
Enjoy the many riotous attempts to mingle the mineral cleft.
There is fluidic fortune in flowing it.
I am coddled by lake and polyp, by billow of red smoke and drizzle.
A indespensable sun of spheres.
Behind the archipelagos like metal.
And a blood-stained sphere's earth will drink you.
A wheel is not enough to sodden me and keep me from the chimney of your dashing epiphany.
The oily goblet that flutters in your peace.
Dead weather, calculating lights like the forest.
We open the halves of a funny things and the entangling of nails flies into the verdure heights.
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