In the lands of figurines, I have held you, to
standard boughs eternal, by Tempskya, in ever-last
of Equisetidae, in genius of love.
In Cyatheales of green porphyry, in moire of light,
in phrases of blue, a perse of heart, by globe or iris
every octant of Juliet’s touch.
If I lie down in vestals of Jovian, or beside the
tongues of water found, or by last of Trifolium repens,
I offer leaf, in full ardor Atlas.
In equivocation of black, I pester of tokens, I
consecrate for peace, a centripetal from to much
seeing, to conjugate from parsing, all quiet poise
of benediction.
Of the ebon, of the deepest dye, is the gratuitous
gratitude of the Raven, of Carrion crow, sable
of the returning gift, interjacent in certitudes of
kindness.
In coronet of somnolence, by the moon of grommet,
the ambages of chronopher, in the civil time of stars,
the wreaths of pause, circlet musician of zonulet and
of pause.
Nihilism was heard in the weeping, lead in the intransigent,
vinaceous the diminishing vein, full life in the siphon of minutes,
faithlessness in the orthogonal register, less by the gentlemen
of the pen.
The rectangle in the monument, odd portraitures in the cure
of moss, a quiet periwinkle in the hasp of casuist, a stipendiary
in the logomach of winds, caissons leaving through the
palpitations of the flowers.
Nape of hope in the heelpiece, flinch in the actiniform of grace,
imprudent upon the shade, light in the agency of penmanship, such
sterling of Pelion, or the poise of leaf in golden atoms,
gramercy flames in the famishes of banian.