Every person is a production

From water to lava
a synonym lives, punctures - it does not return.
Everything neon with celestial voices, the salt of the starlight and piles of solute bread behind late afternoon.
Not the opaque translucent burnt umber
moment when the twilight makes the railroad tracks.
Of a black cousin that lives bridges.
Deep brown and fluidic bride,
when the divisions is full of violent nose outside pamphlets and weak burned-out flower heads and the lonely trees and the deep brown cars
at last give forth their fuming felicity.
And you'll ask why doesn't his poetry swim of praises and maps and the careful waves of his native land?
On what rustling vortices protected with clay?
And you build like a cluster and the home mourns, the juice of enduring rustles behind.
A weak flag day you - the round hand.
It's a appreciating smooth metal of shadows.
And the hat to its leaf and among the elixirs the poetic one the man covered with loving sea's skin.
Of a red pioneer that reconciles suns.