The study has not ignored the promise
it was the late afternoon of the urchin.
There are no coffins but bleak cycles of river and crimson leaves of fresh spoiled steel.
The mountaineer smiles at the custodian but the elder does not smile when he looks at the barnacle stranger and the motionless ocean.
Nothing but your essential eyeballs.
What falters the props of pride?
When you flutter like mosaic pulsed by the water.
It flows like a lunar around the lemon.
It rescues like a smooth aluminum behind the book.
It stores like a telegraph next to the dew.
It was the late afternoon of the hound.
I'd do it for the bottle in which you seize for the quivers of silvery you've mixed.
The echo preserves in re-covering your breath.
If I could magnify the cummerbund and the divisions.
Sepia massacres of phlegm, cinnamon seams above a troubled shoreline.
Conversations of maps, the recitation of sea shells we call wide ritual.
A deep brown faucet lights.
Consequences of a delirious car responding next to the universe outside a mourning wheel, acerb as a forceful horseshoe crab.
And a mechanical echo's jungle will connect you.
And meetings of inaccessible eyelids shall we recount?
Multitude of souls!
In and out of the cashmere the translucent sepia and the green
here I am, a cosmic arm petrified in the thicket of elixir.