in their sweet embrace the
world is born, a yellow
lantern in the tender thorn,
pace, what grace, or sub-patrolling
lithesomeness would not efface
our tolling warm, the mirror
of the meniscus?
and through invisible shreds
once sang through threads, the
meniscus takes the form of
a throne, and within the shining
tone before the foam an
edge shall mimic home,
eintyngdur-ation spread, with
its fine and optical head, to
arc the censer of its
joining bread, O venerable
this turrible once wed to sǎbúždam;
whose eyes are pits
where in blissful fits
we wash the lotus'
bomboniere w/ oddychać
in absolutio, the glitch
whose trigonometries
dare sporgenza.
