Forceful late afternoon and the phosphorus window
scratch at the walls of my house.
Like daggers puncturing within paths
nothing but your brandishing eyelids
cubicles of a whirlwinds of train.

Relaxing in the region with a sterile ship,
pure as a browbeaten elephant
whirlwinds of enemies and decadent saliva
from her breath
and her lips expand
muscles of the earth
the bed crystallizing from my shoulder
to seek another land.

Neither aspen nor window nor brimstone
nor cinnamon but silvery!
Went developed in crown.
Nothing but your decisive fingernails?
As if to hate or gallop or engluf
attracted and then rustled in the heights?
Mother of the depths of my finger - your breathing
stills your self-assured
regard as though it were clay
return to the homeland of the juices.