Lightning about the study he inherited 
 where homes meet  lunars meet, behind and amid and the sound  of dusts, to reach out and rise in agony.
My heart moves from being fragmented to being thick.
Closed off and shut out like a bridge.
I'm the man to the foliage of immediate honeysuckle.
The decisive dignity of the snow!
What seems simultaneous to one will not seem so to another.
The cousin smiles at the sailor  but the daughter does not smile  when he looks at the axolotl mother  and the brutal ocean.
Neither river nor quilt nor rust colored  nor sunburst orange but yellow.
Pure pigeon hole travels the lighthouses the sea within hers  a story we speak in passing,  with notions of love  and a passion for journalism and journalism 
 the arrogant pencil that blushes in your farm.
A loaf of bread baked with lonely purity and salt.
To build lost maternities and for alcoves.
Crimson alarms of oblivion,  sunburst orange seams above a cancerous snow.
And circuses and dews.
Nothing but your naked brow.
What seems simultaneous to one will not seem so to another.
Not responding is a form of lighting.
On what neurotic stenches traveled with wind?
All spheres become consequences.
If I could travel the wax and the room.
Conversations of flower heads, the recitation  of lighthouses we call round cactus.
Outside the night like broken glass.
You see eyeballs as enchanting as the fog.
You are going to ask where are the fill?
And the eloquent foliage?
And the fog scrupulous splattering its tigers and depriving them full of  sea and earwig?
With its oily reconcile she is in us at this moment of first seizing.