the dew of some mornings is a thing which is not unlike the kind nuisance of my lady's graceless feeble miraculous fingers. who are not unlike the starting end of day where **** and silent and hulking quiet tremble viscous muscles of pure unlight, teeming with wondrous gleaming follicles, pimpling the evenings tummy lapped with luna's rapid fortunate tongue. the chittering globs of arms waxing ferocious. in climbing steeply valleys feet middle in strange streams. the common streams. the unerring crooked and corpulent streams. in there, between between, 1and1 (you and i) our ventricles beat insatiably voluminous leaves. from trees of amorous fruit bearing fronds slapping silence(whileWeBeneathThemIntoEachOthersMe'sDepositSlushyViteWeWeremore than god's unfound children returning into the cherished cherry red steaming glue of our very and very clanGlorious howls repeatedly again angain andgain and gain: an earth wholly more to the liking of "which is not unlike us") 1 ! I:,.