Every day is hung on the nail,
a wreath of life, flowered.
Water to the tongue,
giver of life.
Quiet pools of complacency
pour from the mouth of Eden,
which is invisible.
Hand of truth, gatherer of waterfalls:
its ripples are misgivings.
An idea wakes,
gives birth to mammal
like ideology to man.
Just as sewers are to loneliness
is not the soul stupid
when written in cruciforms?
I walk the moors,
I walk the jagged rocks
where oozes the corpuscle,
its veins shaking like roots
in a black river bed.
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