They make those fences
out of their fangs, the goads of...

Everything would end.
Why we are able to live...

Why must we always
put on an act in order...

Words are anxious and lost
before settling in meaning...

It was very musical though it was soundless.
everything in garden...

Yet eager for more
noticing in the mirror...

These clock's hands
like the uneven oars of...

It is so undeniable that the older I get
the more time spreads on my skin...

The more it is bruised
the more iridescent it...

I was thirsty
like the smelted sands of deserts...

With you I'm begun,
no more a phantom...

Oh, how fragile are the soundless beauties,
Blemish brambles...