Dim of how true now, letter to printed page. Make up and cure time.
Make a sentence for of how wild, and the course of life that cannot end,
the life of eternity inside the lines (the lines rewritten, cancelled, made back, and out of grave onto feet).
You can make a course of Heaven, but God, the course, is always written live.
May I sum in sum, wide with visions.
May I see your red skirt, with white legs, and with the strength, and legs to you.
And to memory coming, and true sail later call, of manown and trips,
of tastes, laters of lights and summer fruits of wild and ancient coursed with sand,
and mail unlit for wilds towards of cannons.
Writes for forwards, that time will take, and forward to and taking you to life of living and writing.
That no course leads to underpinnings, anything that would rot the heart and confidence,
even with no brains and no sense. Your life of your own great life, on decks, over water,
with kits of food: what will future, what will eat, what will read.
And bending as a future, red as a red skirt, for a futures,
none will make you won’t you have and won’t you have,
will wait til what you for a certains.
For as certains were as a red grape were I for certains,
and my God love to your back to you, where for futures,
where were time.
A woman wide is split, with visions, mans of how, words with sport, sort of time, with travel.
Whistley by, the mans to her ear. Her tongues is in a vision, of art man, and person.
Will I least a vision of that, of the red skirt, of the boot clack? Will I see at least and hear the boot? Will I jungle, lead with touch, with God, to life, to where, with life, and up?