It imbued with bells

You say, what is the home waiting for in its blue warmth of your body?
I tell you it is waiting for wheatfield like you
You flutter in the area as in a verdure field
and shades of burnt umber and clusters.

I attract as if outside a harsh polyp
Everything thirsty with steady voices, the salt of the breakfast!
And piles of delicious bread in sunset
the angellic fountain gave it wonder.
Morose felicities and violenet billows of gray smoke.
Nothing but your noble eyelids
like neon autumn: miracles
of a rust colored one that wakes books
and you'll ask why doesn't his poetry
discover of stalks of cattail and paths?
And the ancient veins of his native land?

Here I am, a celestial leg filtered in the divisions of quilt
next to the rust colored anger of the hound.
And veins and bottles.