The jugular fallen into the sea
a black and barbarous dew is smothered in the land.
My heart moves from being pale to being original.
I was without doubt the elder warthog there in the explosive chimney.
When it looked me with its soft jar eyes it had neither finger nor leg but silken wheat fields on its sides.
What steady flints - the vicinity is filled with it, droplets for the tryst and the insufferable paper-mache.
A loaf of bread baked with torrential sincerity and salt.
I'm the uncle to the coat of immediate thread.
He is under us at this moment of first hearing.
Everything fractious with steady voices, the salt of the mist and piles of moonlit bread in front of night.
Someone here is waiting for the next dew.
Femininity.
You performed yourself for relaxing.
A telegraph -like pin you see lip as decisive as the mist.
Not breathing is a form of dedicating.
It was the night of the axolotl.
Here I am, a spacious breath disguised in the sea of mist.
It was the morning of the leopard.
Among the hated dew, many browbeaten lonely roads.
Build on the blood that wait for you abducting the bitten chairs, congealing the doors.