I Know the Land Where the Lemon-Trees Flower

I know the land where the lemon-trees flower; wild canarys of the teary beebrush drown. Rest with me! O' darkened orchards of the hour. Rest with me under the clutter of your swirling bones- the earth is showing us how to make something round. O' buxom flower, how your luster sways ones eyes from the gurgling mud; I of withered breath entreat your pretty nectar with my lips that i may taste and reflect in death my soused exterior enclosed in your hips.