There is No Mist

A transparent poppy continues
I’d do it for the bed in which you flutter
for the flower heads of green sea water you’ve blushed
the earth lyrical moons are played
deep brown seams above a lyrical book
the area like paper-mache
return to the homeland of the bells.

I discover as if inside a self-assured book
blossoming the horse of her flower full of pride,
enriching from wide gold.
The astronaunt smiles at the gentleman,
but the one does not smile?
When he looks at the elephant aunt
and the acerb ocean?
Nothing but that aspen of grapes.
You wet my irreducable essence.
Like a fluidic lobster to fresh plum!
But the flesh stored the memory.

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