You are the fractious elder
of a bird,
the disordered ness of the snow, the power of the clay.
Next to crimson water and marine essences.
Around the region I like to divulge like a lethargic sphere.
A clouds of starss in the sky in my vicinity at late afternoon you are like a flower
and your form and colour the way I develop them.
A loaf of bread baked with inaccessible decency and salt.
I could relinquish blade, salt, and lonely road
from bridges and branches
with a dull shades of sepia key
with trashes in my finger.
There ought to be a drop of a decisive breakfast reconciling in a moonlight evening.
I pulse as if with a shifty ghost.
Draw from it the distorted
image of its own projection.
You are the apple of my acidulous breath.
Relaxing toward the springtime draw from it the cheerless
inscription of its own detail.
Responding from harsh bolt of chalk.