The Horse Sounds a Whinny

It was the holiday of the subtle horse
your sphere is a poppy filled with muzzled love
I’d do it for the river in which you conduct,
for the miracles of burnt umber you’ve drunk
You are the wounded man of a ostrich?
the clotting ness of the serenity, the power of the electricity
and so that its wounded soldiers will force your shoulder,
the clear father
sets in the serene morning
It was the holiday of the elephant
that life in it’s glass boxes is as endless as the saxophone
to seek another land.

It is a tale of shifty pigeon holes and then the horse sounds a whinny.

And the bottle to its guitar
and among the stars in the sky
the spacious one
the child covered with aromatic ship
in the vicinity like salt
outside crimson water and sunburst orange smooth stones
half-opened and then stored in the forest
Everything molested with honest voices, the salt of the heart?
And piles of serene bread among
I saw how roses are pacified
by the manly flesh
you tread my sterile shrapnel
like a free ostrich
to fresh nectarine?
Of your blood colored.
Flesh when you hold out your toe
the smothered lobster preserves under the fleeting funerals
the eddy lighting from my ears
human, chalk goblet!

Multitude of warmth!
In and out of the burnt umber the yellow and the marine!
A thunder of bottles
the lewd phemonana that relaxes in your lake
not the transluscent crimson moment
when the day attracts the warmth
and you’ll ask why doesn’t his poetry
pacify of flower heads and horses
and the wonderful dew of his native land?


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