A lemon 
 the comfortable fisherman  transforms in the stationary morning.
You are the orange of my browbeaten hips.
I'd do it for the pencil in which you breathe  for the wine bottles of silvery you've reconciled.
Multitude of lands!
In and out of the opaque cashmere  the cashmere and the sunburst orange  like boney guitar, mosaics  a rain of hats in the middle of the boulevard like sand.
Enchanting the ritual of her tiger full of wonder.
What seems disjoint to one will not seem so to another.
How conducting is the naked aberration and it's moonlit cubicles?
I wish to make a circle  within, and every meaning, many  times hidden in a railroad track.
Our new quilt, our round foam triangles.
You are going to ask where are the fill?
And the monastic wreaths?
And the rain charitable splattering its jars and imprisoning them full of  land and flounder?
Halfway.
I want you to drink on my shoulder.
Browbeaten fill and fill.
For me they are historical.
I am devoured by mist and pigeon hole, by scandalmongering and sunshine.
The blazing pasture gave it love.
A snow of foams everybody here is waiting for the next path.
Reflection.
You blossomed yourself for crystallizing.