le sole vere pupille, sebbene tanto offuscate

                                        


The only real eyes, though much obscured, were sweeping that sanguine and sepia
Reverse of memory. It may be gray outside, but today's reading translates into a spilled valise
Though a presence is lacking, it more often left behind a cabin of upset silks in our cramped dozing.
Giving little notice, until at last turning the corner a square window searches out a bouquet of hybrids,

The gesture stumbles somewhere behind, if to keep us on our backs, clutching our valises.
Near to the shore and not near enough to touch, an air of recollection and vulgarity everywhere, 
Whose intriguing exception beats the wrack ashore. Withers the gourd vines in the elegiac, hybrid
Otherwise identical white. Photographed from a living cuttle contracted at the left. Expanded, right

In the diverse seconds, three hearts supply a funnel and face. Tuning most sounds out, everywhere
Defensive, camouflaging, courtship-related changes of color have been described, your weeping rage
At the critical instant, is apt to break. Brittle pen within the jelly mass supposes the object breaking up
Its silhouette. An ink may be discharged after the confession, but not understanding its features


The final cause, causes one to act beneath the level of a gaze. Black clouds of narcotic, slowing rage
Head over foot. Moving this side of the table, where satisfaction enters the mind, where volumes altered
But the constructions insistently made the cuttle (never mind the copperish taste), an object for breaking
The chalk reserve of history. In the hands of goldsmiths casting rings as blood and water move to the same purpose


Construction insistently made the cuttle, if to compensate for your own body weight, a broken object.
Bright Ganymede before dropping into the ocean. More often a reserved presence upsetting the dozing silks
Through this strand of tissue and mimicking what I have never changed as if there were no vestiges of your shell 
Sepia, content as you travel past the cracked vase pieces where your real eyes, though obscure, leapt out of the sand.