For the laggard totes the water and extinguishes himself.

For the spatial dimension is not a bluebird.

For the inoculation hath persuaded me.

For a fragment of wolf-face lends the autumn its teeth.

For the Cloud-King’s aperture is also my aperture.

For exiled from the votaries I sleep upon the tarmac.

For the schizoid paramour does not make the bed.

For excessive gesturing renounces the nightmare.

For madrigals are not birds.

For martens are my horoscope.

For the flowers smell better inside her mouth.

For she is a pauper and the abyss is damp.

For the half-lit dining room is a cruel mechanism.

For her estuary mouth and her wood of the dead.

For the Lord is the Lord and her breasts are her breasts.

For I am demeaned by sunlight.

For the black poppy is a lonesome friend.

For her hair is a thicket not easily deciphered.

For a song is enclosed inside this thrappling.

For a song is a borrowed peacock eye.

For to undulate is a rarefied motion.

For the farmers laugh at my rickety plow.

For when people say “that’s lyrical” they mean that words have been made to mean what they do not mean.

For I do not live on a farm.

For the shoat will shriek for its mother.

For the Lord’s ass is blue when his blue ass is on fire.

For the burden of feeling does not save a fly.

For the fondling of parchment is not an achievement.

For the possibility of error inflames the satyrist.

For the demiurge’s blossoms are mostly contagion.

For nothing more should be mentioned of her red chemise.

For the ripe secret pours its blood.

For I will not open a curtain during the gunmetal alarms.

For the Lord is a little song and I am a little mouse and my mother is a little mote and beyond that I do not know.

For the celestial brightness is shorn of its frame.