What is true of the cathedral is true of something
there ought to be a tiger of a soft energy awakening in a field.
There are no daggers but directionless cycles of productivity and cashmere candles of soft windy ash.
My heart moves from being lashed to being absent minded.
I could perfume shrapnel, blade, and parallel wounded soldiers
from maps and hats with a gray grace with oxides in my foot.
Shoreline was no longer above the transmission threshold.
This oily telegraph and perching drop drowns me with it's indespensable dews like foot and eyelids and red veins like breath and flowers.
A signal preserves, sobs - it does not return.
Filter me and let my substance perfume.
A blue movie grows.
A circle behind a quadrangle, the putrid workings of sanguine law.
I'd do it for the tiger in which you rejoice for the manes of sepia you've promised.
When the field is full of lashed eyeballs next to massacres and atrocious negligent times and the dead maternities and the smooth stones at last give forth their bruised funeral.
A current of trusting laminated sign that does not know why it flows and makes.
You - the profound brain.