In the shape of an unharmed almond, of a yelling sponge,
Of a magnen desolved in a bestiary, in the obscure
Meanderings of the dagger, in the indolent eye of theft,
Tongue of exile swarms against the wind
You angle you wheel you cord of mirrors

And so crockery, licorice, swim
So spine of an egg, so ambush,
And then a lampost that nurses, fountain
And glue and blue puncture of cut,
And still this squatting of excess,
This pinocchio-kneecap inciting
The skimmed belly of your death
On spread wings, steep in voice, in the void
Of doubtful thoughts and reprisals
Of blowgun and fox. If it discolors
In a glove: the violet shell of sex,
The rent of the three of diamonds

Here is the mute substance of path, cutting
Not knowing, desolate cotton on a twig,
Heart in suspense and wax of encumbrance,
And here's the arrow of the seam, pregnant,
Uphill, here's the interrupted hostage, the fasting
The mallow with feigned eyes. Here the Indian is defrocked,
Theft adjacent, the varian thrust back in chimera

If an acute slowness were skin
Gust of leaven mastiffs
Blue ointment of the rebound,
If one's face were white
And it's color were to die in the leap,
O yes, exception, in wrinkle and nose

In the diligence of song, In the sudden,
In fear that the unfillable distract
The ear from its swarming
And often minstine of the everless and tail,
And the opining variety of the hole.

First dominates green, the haiyd without birdlime,
Without a cap, the easygoing sand, the salt,
Then the promiscuous tortoise, the indolent eye,
The microphone beating on the abdomen.
Last responds the woodworm, the soubled stakes,
The incessant gum, the finger dipped
In oil and albumen, wrapped in sugar paper,
Nailed to the top of an apron.
If one winds it's by the rollers of stayers
That swells and rots, that dyes
As refractory wool, as goose pimple.

-luigi ballerini