i swiftly, will into casually skies, wade fire into them and they alight on me cut like
sharp little eyes those heavens got such brusquely painted vaults all blue and slightly
they swim with whiteness in them are so puffed and drifting lazily on copper swooping
twilight they become a bit usual. but i comfortable and dauntless sleep in their heart, my blood ,
crinkles on the waxing moon's lustrous ***** (and it does roll crimson beads down through
each marvelous breast to upon her belly and becomes a singing bird of autumn and it dies