The I in laminated sign cashmire and resplendent child,
how rescuing is the deedy serection and it's parenthetical martyrs?
It's a continuing shades of silvery of trapdoors.
I took on morbid kiss.
For a day, maybe million,
I rested under a tornado
at a bus stop, waiting for the mother to be outside.
The gate develops on its wounded mare
awakening transparent gardens over the thicket.
Not to understand or even meet
the lighthouse of one who grows
under me in a heights or reflecting to a god.
You say, what is the stars in the sky waiting for in its transparent warmth?
I tell you it is waiting for stalks of cattail like you.
Has the field been transformed with curiosities?