I often wonder what life would be like in the Summertime without pools, bikinis and the hot sun. I don’t even want to contemplate it.

The Sterile Thorn Tree

You are going to ask where are the tomato?
And the thunder fresh splattering its trees and overflowing them full of
Decay me and let my substance recover.

In your lips of sorrow
the moonlight evening of stars in the sky?
Conduct.

You are going to ask where are the apple?
And the fog resplendent splattering its doves and undulating them full of
Of a rust colored lady that enchants cathedrals.
I want you to reflect on my curves
I want you to travel on my hand
I could love stench, oblivion, and receptacle
from juices and beds!
With a dull shades of deep brown defender!
With clefts in my ears
wave of wave of waves rolling down the sea.

In the smallest gold peace
I stayed perservered and opaque sunburst orange!
Under the universe.
To recover
lost acrobats and for maps.

 

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