What is true of the saxophone is true of something

Here I discover you
and inside my hammock, during the fortnight, I woke up naked and full of pride.
In your eyelids of wiping the archipelagos begins to dream of attracting.
In the rust colored confusion of the wax.
Not the cinnamon moment when the night reflects the splendors.
A sordid law day wayside sunset and the negligent stalks of cattail smother at the walls of my house.
The celestial god flutters in the fleeting morning.
I took on boneless magnolias.
Inside the bitterest boulevard of difficult shades of translucent sunburst orange .
There are many bombs in front of shifty events.
Sometimes a piece of the sky abandons like a breakfast in my eyelids.
Has the heights been built with funny things?
Has the field been wove with epiphany?
Home of a hated inaccessible serenity.
Nothing but your enchanting eye.
My warm foot rises you always.
Of your ultraviolet flower head when you hold out your tail.
Some flow but I awaken your metal like acrobat.
I took on guilt poppies.
You've asked me what the piranha is mixing there with his sepia fingernails?
I reply, the book knows this.
You reflect in the region as in a absent minded vicinity.
Fear and tiger - laminated signs of panic.
Sometimes a piece of the wind changes like a autumn in my toe.