every time you close your eyes

for some reason the eagle never rests,
when the time appears on the beavers' chests,
but the answer lies within the mountains,
of the things who's forks leave me with stains.
how will he know if the sorbet is right,
or if it's too gentle for the soaring night?
i believe that you believe that they march,
but their hands will take over the wise butter arch.
the small sun resists the urge to explode,
for then all the grass will blacken within my abode,
the things of your universe and spiralling pink particles,
sea salt enters your nostrils and she reveals your articles.
what didn't you do whence the time smelt so fresh?
for the jukebox jumps only when the fingernails suppress.
whack that tambourine,
your eyes are marine.

ps> i will meet you under the acrylic sky with nothing but a reason why.