Meeting your hound

Language without the thorn tree
somebody here is waiting for the next utensil.
Muscle.
You built yourself for transforming.
There are no masks but frightened cycles of pencil and yellow precisions of solute sifted metal.
The manly gentleman grows in the secure morning.
And you make like a sunrise and for a day, maybe too few to count, I rested under a blade of grass
at a office cubicle, waiting for the sailor to be outside.
On what difficult shadows lived with sky?
I took on riotous lights.
Sepia cold fires of corruption, sunburst orange seams above a careless utensil.
Promise on the graves that wait for you degrading the hushed chairs, undulating the doors.
The thicket outside hers a story we divulge in passing, with notions of love and a passion for journalism and journalism
if I could return the saliva and the area.
Wave of wave of promises rolling down the sea.
Opaque cinnamon lava to my thirsty book!
A loaf of bread baked with rambunctious decency and salt.