Wind turbines circling rapidly in the horizon,
constant motion and crackpot wind.
She can’t even get hold of her long chiffon hairs…
all getting into her coinciding lips and indifferent eyes.
These times make you aware of the beauty of unkempt souls.
She is humming some wild folk songs,
I am reinventing them with her unlubricated voice…
She is a fire, she is a black cloud over dumped sea…she is a truth I have never seen.
I fear for my touches, I fear for my involvements in her crazy strokes of blue brushes…
Tonight I am going to get away from her propulsion, tonight I am going to make the house of cards without her cascading breaths on them.
Cynicism and affinity both comes to me naturally…
the second one will always be oblivious for her…but the first one I need, to get along with this imagery of her undressing those pompous nipples in a erected sunset.

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Photograph: Anthony J. D’Angelo.