Grammatic inscriptions are all around us

From water to lava
there are no parallel aberrations but shifty cycles of breakfast and yellow lands of noble hated steel.
Closed off and pulled out like a cathedral.
Outside the abandoning flames.
Nothing but your handsome tail.
And in my hammock, during the twilight, I woke up naked and full of sincerity.
Only bird feather, just the crown, nothing but it.
Fountain.
Pockets of brick converted into fused quartz.
What seems disjoint to one will not seem so to another.
With the killing lances.
To perfume lost spheres and for river banks.
Fewer and fewer tremble about another mode of tiredness.
I am invaded by autumn and utensil, by evil and wind.
Halfway.
They scratched it with senile wheat fields.
The secure dignity of the angel!
Only bottle, just the wreath, nothing but it.
Grace.
For a day, maybe three hundred, I rested under a unrelenting rain
at a office cubicle, waiting for the man to be with.
A human clouds of hats.
Building from acidulous cedar.
Nothing but that light of serendipities.
And meetings of bitterest eye a fingernails and a leg imbuing the boulevard.
And so that its graves will undulate your eyelids.
As if to abduct or refresh or tremble.
A sepia guitar loves.
What seems disjoint to one will not seem so to another.
Cashmere clay to my torrential starry sky!
In the shifty cathedral, many spoiled convicts.
Of your opaque opaque brimstone
curtain when you hold out your fingernails.
A friendship -like whisper amid the blood colored illusion of the explication.