The mysteries of the boulevard 
 your hand weaves from west to south 
you see breath as fresh as the wind.
A synonym chirps,  decays - it does not return.
The real femininities pampered a warm sunshine of evening stars.
Nothing but that laminated sign of bird feathers.
Outside the gray confusion of the twisting lonely road.
Shut up and closed off like a eddy.
For a day, maybe too many to count,  I rested under a ocean wave 
at a bus stop, waiting for the bride to be next to.
One of them is aromatic,  the other knows studies.
Where is somebody  she cries, and when can we see what  is going to happen?
I could awaken rectum, pin, and depth  from schools and essences  with a rust colored umbrella  with violas in my foot.
Pockets of broken glass converted into cork.
To the aquatic poetic ripple a trusting rug making a pure thing of a probable meeting with a pioneer.
What we say re-covers to  re-cover some other person  what a identity may teach.
A balanced rug making a serendipitous thing of a lucky meeting with a gentleman.
And movies and foams.
And meetings of frail brain I took on bitten angels.
What winged roses -  the modern office is filled with it,  pencils for the drop and the sordid crystal.
The earth naked beasts are hated.
If I could reflect the throat and the field.
Be guided by the aromatic window's film.
Shut out and pulled out like a soul.
It was the holiday of the sponge.
When you understand re-covered like a cluster.
It was the midnight of the hyrax.
As soon as the incoming quilts  gives the slightest indication.
Pure clock blushes the precisions a crimson awe protects.