a morsel of fire

so, exactly similar so, as the amber burning evening days are autumn’s embers in the, oh, early shadows of the easy bluebell, the midnight snow cold blueberry in some blurry temporal delay, empyreal shadows in the arboreal, oh, the wine cellar and mine, the myriad chandeliers, some comfort, of soft silhouettes in their longing display, by the breadcrumbs of a better memory, by the birdsong, as, in modern, common cars pass by, blue-beaming, with halogen lights at the ever nearing nighttime in the ninth hour’s twang, smearing the twilight into the tenth or eleventh hour; the fox now comes to rest inside with the money, fashionably bound by the neck with like ruby-red, cherry churning ribbons, a marvelous early winter scarf, licking the salt up with the lemons on the duck dish on the supper table with it’s, beautiful, supple scarlet tongue, spilling a bowl of yogurt on a philosophie book left laying on the ground, the maximillion dreaming on the living room sofa with the television on, blue beaming xenon, in the darkness of a quiet house, in modernity, like a dreaming dove.