i light up, i placate, i diffuse with the trade at the fair
i blow up your body of l¬?grimas here
i am the flash of your nullified speed
i heat in the oven the heart of a doe, with the tools of the weak
i plugin for a seek
i trouble the barn with wet hay in my hands, a hummingbird reeks
i make a devil the mother of Hosts for a fleet
today, in the filters, the woman that hears,
in her head, in the cloud that you said.
in the trademark that peels all the shores
i remake the command, the on and off touch,
the memory growing to find a Return
i point down on location, the underlined world
is finishing wood with the rinse of a sleep in a cave.
the most that an open refrain will divide,
the weapon of stars, the last of the fields
in rippling trains
in the tropics of endless reverse
a reverse of the hand
in any way made for the gone
for the caps lock of sense
that plies a disease of address,
its repair that a one-to-one word has in hand
where they are, where the stolen of blood loss connects,
where the path has a stop to rename
when the open revolves, when the shirt comes undone,
when the hands were not ten
there is friction to soil in the obverse of breath
OFF
ON
OFF
OFF
ON
ON
ON
OFF
in the chain of a ring, the main hull of a ward
a pointer that peels its close wind to the ground
that feeds the unwavering wood
that the almost gives out
that anyone sees
that the sari in heat waves puts in,
that the mazes will rate with a road
that the safest retrial has to cut
that the spanish gives out in a disk, in a gift
one paper belongs to the wood
one sharpened detail pulls the page
one service that paints
one on the face, a swap of a sail
one in the open fresh grave
i wake for the morning in 5 empty rooms
i am something for free
i am gone
i am fear
i am lost in the circuits of panning moot coals
in the page of a rose
in the fence of between
in the softened deferment of race
in the hole
in the rust of the trade
every mid-winter remains
results of a read have a frame
the poison that wills
the moisture that runs
the song that affronts all the bones
in a stain, in a wound, in a curl
there is everything done
for the snake in the corn
there is one for the skull of a lamb
together there's more than the sight
of anyone gone
of the world
of the same
of the wrong
of the criminal steps in a pace
there hasn't been one for the hand or the eye
or there hasn't been anything weaker than one
or there is, in a way
in a menial dust, in the traveling ghost
in the surface of suns
in the rot of a stolen bread toll
like a double might be, like Mars and Venus
like the markings replaced on the wall
like the 5 extra days in a cell for a move
in every transporter that puts its will on
for the five, for the seven, for four
