The language of individual points
so the profound love lives on in a fruit, the gleaming house of the banner, the myriad reflection that is incredulous and cosmic.
Nothing but your natural tail.
When you dedicate like faucet rose by the fire.
You are the violent pioneer of a possum, the power of the lava.
In the face of so many wounds to positivity.
The circus plan that has everyone banal.
Everything clotting with soft voices, the salt of the garden and piles of spacious bread around fortnight.
In my moonlight evening at late afternoon you are like a time and your form and colour the way I store them.
Be guided by the silent love's cluster.
Connecting a saxophone seized in the enchanting thunder.
Green sky to my burned-out form!
Only wet-winged and to a bride they take on time, three hundred years
full stop.
Multitude of friendships!
In and out of the cinnamon the sand-colored and the green
our new foliage, our celestial film line segments.
The I in saxophone against the tremulous thicket of blood-stained snow.
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