Sic

Throttle bowl, hush a tee.  Accept this infancy, see its unbalance, a palace even, your unfaded tether.  I forget this and that, wonder that it kick the dusk so when my eye (my guru) unyoke, burying opulence ennoble you, O solo, your rune ore.  Moist temerity.  Hear the voice of the skylark in the early morning, a nudity is the naked vacancy of Aladdin's bland yawn riddled until it imitate a deathly hint, an Andean sweet withheld, a Bedouin victim's fluent earth or eye.  I vent a poem if I (sic).