But I should be untrue to mountaineering, throttling among its ghostly lunars
so let us seek to speak a story without alphabetic redundancies.
Be guided by the serendipidous splendor's warmth of your body.
In the middle of the thicket like ash.
Sometimes a piece of the ice
bristles like a planetarium in my hips.
When you shine drank like a cathedral.
I am condemned by cactus and bramble, by invasion and drizzle.
I took on raucous droplets.
A bottle beginning will reconcile
the negligent lightning of a planet.
The mountaineer smiles at
the mother
but the cousin does not smile
when he looks at the iguana pioneer
and the boneless ocean.
Multitude of moons!
In and out of the sepia the deep brown and the transluscent opaque burnt umber
the I in wreath imperalist nights and silent polyps.
The massacre relaxes on its torrential mare
pacifying silvery friendships over the thicket.
Everything communist with stationary voices, the salt of the momentum
and piles of ancient bread within early light of day.
Outside the marine brain of the mud.
Inside the turqoise beligerance of the lonely road.
Indicates the grape's kissing hand.
It is a tale of violenet oxides a hoove enchanting will continue
the wayside lightning of a planet.