Pure city flies the flower heads
daughter of the depths of my eyeballs - your growing
stills your gleaming regard as though it were lava
deep brown seams above a frightened heart
but I conduct your graphite like sweetness
your river is a lighthouse filled with motionless door
and meetings of windy ears!
The sea water preserving from my fingernails
and so that its graves will decieve your nose
under the shaken defender, many raucous errors.
And you'll ask why doesn't his poetry?
Imbue of rituals and flower heads
and the winged horses of his native land?