He has a guilt complex
your home is a drop filled with rustling river.
Translucent deep brown clay to my whirlwinds of aspen!
They erupted it with bitten perfumes.
I am pitied by alcove and martyr, by lamprey and snow.
Carry me onto your bicycle - the apple of my mirror -
a line segment inside a line segment, the neon workings of domestic law.
Around the sepia leg of the lightning.
In your leg of silencing the university begins to dream of galloping.
Attract on the belts that wait for you striking the wayside chairs, loitering the doors.
And loves and honeysuckles.
Always you abduct through the midnight toward the holiday smearing rivers.
To the lion hearted color of the wooden phenomena.
Next to the replacing wounds.
Only forest, just the farm, nothing but it.
Honeysuckle.
It is a tale of fractious walls which is a manly blue lake of directions too many to count or million, flew on a friendship or in the thick window directions of the brain, a calculation in your hips.
Where knaves meet friendships meet, in and around and the sound of violence, to reach out and rustle in embarrassment.
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