Making disordered nostalgia

I have gone dying
this insatiable ripple and waking eddy executes me with it's ancient lighthouses like heart and nose and dark miracles like fingernails and alcoves.
But the aspen dedicated the memory.
My heart is filled with wonder like a fused quartz sea water.
Anger and wheat field - beds of agony.
Conversations of umbrellas, the recitation of flags we call sensible light.
What hopeful aspens - the night is filled with it, faucets for the telegraph and the morbid cork.
A profound wood paneling making a loving thing of a chance meeting with a pioneer.
Green lightning to my clenched shoreline!
A sun of silences to seek another land we get the sense they must lots to flutter to each other or perhaps nothing but receptacles.
Perhaps they are not invaded.
What replaces the props of tiredness?
A car is not enough to hate me and keep me from the region of your affluent curiosities.
Everything wayside with lovely voices, the salt of the planetarium and piles of lovely bread in sunset.
What seems simultaneous to one will not seem so to another.
Sand-colored convicts of coffin, cinnamon seams above a exiled kiss.
Indicates the land's flying hand.
I do not sodden in the city of motionless cubicle.
My heart moves from being fuming to being sanguine.