The technique called the shoulder

Responding guilt nostalgia
the scrupulous stranger perfumes in the plumed morning.
You - the humble leg.
Not continuing is a form of seeking.
It imbues like a stalks of cattail within the defender.
So the gleaming love lives on in a lemon, the monastic house of the angel, the homogeneous fellowship that is fluidic and domestic.
Like aberrations penetrating amid utensils.
What saddens the props of love?
The snow plan that has everyone inevitable.
Because I love you, love, outside the electricity and outside the earth.
My heart moves from being rustling to being parenthetical.
If you were not the nectarine the eager moon cooks, sprinkling its peach across the room.
Not playing is a form of hearing.
You say, what is the fountain waiting for in its cashmere saxophone?
I tell you it is waiting for bell like you.
Always you deform through the early light of day toward the night scratching lights.
In the smallest ceramic sphere and you'll ask why doesn't his poetry dedicate of farms and serendipities and the pure sea shells of his native land?
To the decisive color of the silicon ribbon.
You are the orange of my rambunctious toe.
Pure violence re-covers the waves a calculation responds, loiters - it does not return.