Mute Moon. Your curves crumbling

 Minute looking out the window. Of cloth one day. Giving up until it cracks. It is perhaps I see. The backyard. The unbearable. I will travel in a caravan along the flagstones. Filigree colors. Homemade arabesques. The unbearable silence of the air. Backyard desert. The long leaves of the pilistra or donkey ears creak. The heart of the fountain jet. It is released. The entrails are lowered. They make me a hard prisoner. Ground stone prison. Consistent spring cheer. When you are sad look at the Moon with its I know nothing face. Of its stone silence. Mute Moon. Its curves crumbling. It is reflected in the face of the courtyard. The darkness of the grains. Their chopped shadows. Shadows flow.

Sense, then ex-isto as hypo/thesis.