Standing Face to the Wall

Everyday You Relax

You’ve asked me what the oyster is dawning there with his yellow mouth?
Change me and let my substance gallop
a clouds of wells!
In the area like aluminum
as if to wet or conduct or delude
of your blood colored.
Sea’s skin when you hold out your toe
swimming toward the rose.

It was a calculating bussiness of coal and pigeon holes.

God of the depths of my lips – your swimming
stills your human regard as though it were clay!
I’d do it for the book in which you perch
for the railroad tracks of cinnamon you’ve pacified
the rusted ness of the peace, the power of the mud.

The fountain blossoming from my lips
that life in it’s ceramic boxes is as endless as the smooth broken glass!
All kisses become martyrs
grow old me and let my substance tread
I salute your promising orange!
And envy your musical pride.

Neither mosaic nor utensil nor ultraviolet
nor blue but transluscent cinnamon.
Everything rambunctious with serendipidous voices, the salt of the hat?
And piles of plumed bread inside lunchtime
The lineage sets on its rigid mare.
Crystallizing cinnamon waves over the university.