Apt Antlers

Your maze is a trust of tornadoes. At last my hands are the receiver, electric gestures pleasantly current. Just beyond the blackberry, the container yellows. Come out of the bath, I wanted you nicely. Dutch simplicity doesn’t rhyme with Zukofsky. Fate is a wingy flame and a ruffled jungle. I need buffalo but I’ve never been a bystander. Some breathe loudly, I parse instances. Within which the poem operates. It is dark, this Republic of Ireland. Yet, your lips have a number of linings. Wolves are clean and flying. What prompts meaning in the moonlight? Moon, moon, why don’t you leave me alone?