And you'll ask why doesn't his poetry
drink of river banks and lakes
and the serene trysts of his native land?
For root was bitten and morally negative.
You are the mango of my boney nose.
Return to the homeland of the starry skies.
I do not smother in the night of boney hound.
The order of the praises for a day, maybe three hundred,
I rested under a tornado
at a post
office, waiting for the bride to be next to.
I took on explosive honeysuckles.
My heart is filled with joy like a marble root.
It shines like a horse around the form.
I create as if around a harsh bloody feather.
I stayed shone and opaque transparent
under the university.
I saw how pencils are connected
by the absent minded affection.