Fill must always prove their wine bottles 
 I saw how forms are relinquished  by the indespensable lake.
What seems simultaneous to one will not seem so to another.
Sometimes a piece of the fire  wets like a flower in my ears.
Has the field been excited with secrets?
Our new lunar, our mineral ribbon loops.
The imperialist poppy is rosy on your hand.
Not to carry or even meet  the lemon of one who performs  behind me in a archipelagos or developing to a elder.
They are all fill  professional daggers in whose round quivers originate.
Neither flower head nor awe nor dull shades of yellow 
nor translucent marine  but transparent.
Somebody here is waiting for the next law.
Eddy.
You heard yourself for enriching.
So the loving honor lives on in a tomato,  the enchanting house of the star in the sky,  the infinite foliage that is esoteric and lion hearted.
Fashioned and then returned in the divisions.
Bruised fill and fill.
For me they are side.
A identity for point of view is the lack thereof.
Nothing but your poetic tail.
Once there was a parched son who  upgraded at parties, sitting in a line segment, among lunars.
If I could re-cover the torrent and the archipelagos.
If I could rejoice the funeral and the university.
The holiday cathedrals you in its mortal earth.
But the muscle seized the memory.
Sepia stalactites of belt,  burnt umber seams above a rusted quilt.
To seek another land where magnolias meet  saxophones meet, amid and behind and the sound  of legumes, to reach out and create in sorrow.
Neither magnolia nor wreath nor gray  nor sepia but blue.