for translation

I have shape-shifted in the last phrase we instantly entwine, are encumbered by, and it is the skin-stripped body posed as a runner, stared at by hundreds, stunned, the disjointed gasses and solids and metabolites, that find their seed nature in planets that are only beginning to die, or form. You have gotten this far without remembering a single feature, face twilight-drunk, reverberating. As shattered domes know very few names. As summer bears reaching, interpreting, withering. At the center of a molecule, a plantation burns straight down to the particle dream that squanders, lets roam its cyclical blade. I am what aggresses, emanates, signal-rich as refusal. Whichever bolt of silk you make yourself a word of, that it can drive blood around that room, and meet itself in conversationless equipoise. Otherwise, gravity, more gravity.