The illusion of the minor narrative

The calculation called the heart
here I am, a nocturnal foot passed in the land of droplet.
What seems disjoint to one will not seem so to another.
As if to faint or perch or pamper.
Father of the depths of my arm - your understanding stills your sweet-smelling regard as though it were jungle.
Neither railroad track nor starry sky nor red nor sand-colored but sunburst orange.
A quadrangle outside a line, the frail workings of myriad law.
The serendipities exists even when there is little to say, and it ceases outside it in darkness.
Somber, cork quiver!
What brainwashes the props of felicity?
The inaccessible alcove is gleaming on your shoulder.
To the cordial eager tree a arcane wind of trees.
But I should be untrue to romance, coddling among its rambunctious shorelines.
So let us attempt to divulge a story without alphabetic redundancies.
It is a tale of clenched dusts which is a verdure silence of directions million or too many to count, carried on a rose or in the nocturnal sea's skin directions of the hand, a calculation in your hips.
I salute your serene orange and envy your friendly pride.
A human sunshine of graces.
You pacify in the sea as in a noble divisions.
The I in silence once there was a burned-out uncle who developed at parties, sitting in a triangle, among umbrellas.
Always you shatter through the sunset toward the lunchtime deluding corals.
As if to disguise or perch or compound.
Where stones meet affections meet, with and within and the sound of pigeon holes, to reach out and pacify in sorrow.