may my heart always be open to little birds who are the secrets of living
Art is a mystery. A mystery is something immeasurable.
(and from my thighs which shrug and pant a murdering rain leapingly reaches the upward singular deepest flower which she carries in a gesture of her hips)
Who knows if the moon's / a balloon, coming out of a keen city / in the sky - filled with pretty people?
Must's a schoolroom in the month of may
Take the matter of being born. What does being born mean to most people?