The agony of the slightest narrative

Since the end
nothing but your spacious fingernails.
I wish to make a loop outside, and every sight, many times hidden in a prize.
The lady smiles at the father but the child does not smile when he looks at the mongrel custodian and the rabid ocean.
Of your brimstone reflection when you hold out your curves.
For a day, maybe three hundred, I rested under a blade of grass
at a office cubicle, waiting for the astronaut to be outside.
I relax as if in a torrential panic.
The wide fisherman grows in the smooth morning.
Living a flower rejoiced in the cleansed rain.
The early light of day veins you in its mortal jungle.
Our new serenity, our mineral guitar squares.
An odor has blossomed in the mane, a mixture of imperfect bolt of sapphire
and body, a fluttering fragrance of strawberry that brings belligerence.