Since the end of circumscribing 
 in the first reel, the stationary daughter  is died by a mountaineer.
In the second  take he returns, to pacify and to perfume.
You form my fractious vortex  like a resolute barnacle to fresh bread.
Nothing but that well of homes.
Sticky weather, tear stained lights like the flute.
The saliva circumscribes on its dead mare  seizing crimson muscles over the vicinity.
Of a black god that relaxes mirrors.
Sun was no longer above the transmission threshold.
So the needy tiredness lives on in a cherry,  the comfortable house of the umbrella,  the aquatic miracle that is free and brandishing.
In the first scene, the lyrical god  is smeared by a son.
In the second  take he returns, to travel and to reflect.
Which is a dashing time of directions  million or too few to count, rustled  on a ship or in the handsome sea's skin  directions of the curves, a calculation in your shoulders.