The God is not a contract or a guide.

God is and a specified tie.

You cannot time its tables.

It sets no glass or cables God is a lusty tire fire

It's bristles scrape and strike, rock, paper scissors, rage at mercy on the natural world.

My voice is not the liquid waves, the perfect range round a hare on heron's legs.

My voice is straight, a rotting wire, a stolen mile of fingerprints,

peeled up quiet from their dunes captured and respoolers ruined to be

used at a different time. My voice is a fracture of shingbone's lust.

Purning with a ground that lifts you up and sits you just, just at sorrows, what a line, I drape you on tomorrow's

plate, Ferris metal marrow spilling, not yours but mine.

I'm an agent with a natural world.

Don't you tell me I didn't want you that that's so gravity on night to play your way.

Don't you tell me I didn't warn you that's so gravity of not to pay with nothing quite so

poison as a promise nothing quite so poison as a promise

nothing quite so poison as a promise

nothing quite so poison as a promise. Oh, I'm not a mess, I'm a wilderness, yes.

And me, I'm not a mess,

I'm a wilderness. Yes. The undiscovered continent for you to undress. But you'll not be my master you barely my guest

You don't have permission to take any pictures be careful

The natural Many pictures, be careful, the natural world.

Nature can't amend its ways, boils along and then replace. Despite heartfelt spring times of regret the storm she still cries for days.

...