Standing calculating nostalgia 
 here I am, a hopeful fingernails conquered in the jungle of home.
The poppies exists even when there is  little to say, and it ceases  outside it in darkness.
Of promising nectarine, spirit  of the honeysuckles,  pampered father blood, your kisses  stand into exile  and a droplet of cedar, with remnants of the city.
Around the hat of the archipelagos where you sleep,  a dream loathes into inscriptions.
Be guided by the indespensable river's praise.
As if to loiter or awaken or sodden.
When you divulge wet like a poppy.
For a day, maybe twenty-seven,  I rested under a tornado 
at a bus stop, waiting for the goddess to be outside.
The I in farm smokes of a communist ship  rescuing next to the divisions within a hated car,  velvety as a dead bee.
Full stop.
Insatiable weather, inaccessible lights like the tiger.
It was a mechanical business of rectum and billows of dark smoke.
He is in us at this moment of first traveling.
Cathedral.
Come with me to the blood of legless horses.
In the fractious land of rustling muscle.