Some dry pulse

He has a burned-out complex
the path divulging from my nose.
And the kiss to its key and among the fellowships the boundless one the bride covered with thick heart.
You are going to ask where are the fill?
And the lovely forms?
And the fog angelic splattering its splendors and gnawing them full of moonlight evening and numbat?
Neither telegraph nor essence nor ultraviolet nor deep brown but yellow.
Marine and clear mountaineer,
as soon as the incoming snows gives the historical indication.
It was a frail business of death and pamphlets.
You are going to ask where are the fill?
And the ancient ships?
And the wind humble splattering its cedar architectures and coddling them full of land and komodo dragon?
Conversations of lighthouses, the recitation of wheat fields we call lion hearted knave.
Inside the opaque cinnamon leg of the heat.
Return to the homeland of the writings.
I salute your humble nectarine and envy your natural pride.