Nothing moves us not contained
night that smells of apple in her basket
advancing lunar wake as a runaway river
machines manufactured overseas horizons disguised
A small tree
raves and dreams that rises to the realms of the impossible
raining relentlessly steep
words to replace those stars as the man buried
knee
their deepest secrets in the light of a chalk writes:
.. Everything is going so well .. But within us
arms have stopped moving
[Oil: Sleeping Venus-Paul Delvaux]
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