Brasil

Left a hole on fire agony or was it the sun on the banks and near duets? Eagles with the white wine of the sun clink and spill, tall grass over head and heels . . . Space of hell: shy, inscribed already but alone— I think I can be that again, a new hole in the ongoing flute. In a leap, the country glows— to hone the fate that wonder exacts, to go netted through that much, so heavy as paperweights angels land square on chaparral nerves. And since names must give in spades, out of sorts like these, your reactions may swell great fountain lips— a promise that a wish will purge or pennies caravan the safe return hearts cross.