Once born upon the ridges,
The coalesce of the dry, dry seams of warmth;
There the death of the red, there the death of the wind,
And here is a, nonetheless, word spoken,
By the life it feels and here is life.
Elbows grease up in a flare,
Gesturing the root of work and dawn,
And to be sure I’ll wake up to hear soon
Those passerby passerines, and young children.
I left in the late afternoon,
Passing by the street-post.
The morning transcript opens,
With headlines of a tempest.
Mating between the birds,
Washing in the wind,
And the grass, color of marrow;
I see a rabbit swallowing the aged princely flower; It seemed ripe enough to eat.
All of the eyes part soon enough, breeding a certain type of look,
Ah, a certain type of genesis on top of the boughs!
The wind above the roof gusts, some paroxysm in the midst—
That went right through my spine into the brush of the boughs.
Passing on orally, escaping the celebrated mouth of an uproar
Those swarms of lakes into ripples, and these ripples to the soil.
And that measly smell,
Poking into the lungs, assuming a cough.
A mass together in forms of smoke once more,
And the crowds soon formed,
And the onlookers looked up.
Should I hear some love song,
Airing throughout the empty seats,
Alongside the patterns of the roots,
And the soil, the dying breed of trees,
The counting of eyes, and their lurch?
Where else should some turn to hear,
Who should hear alongside them?
Must lay beside;
And we watched as we went,
And we watched as they went.
Water entombed in the womb of the Earth,
Crowding the paltry eyes of the buds,
As the light ceases to dawn from the quay,
Thus, these preludes to sputters from the sky.
And I grow bored,
And I grow bored.
I turn, a box in the road neatly tucked;
Dry, the weather is dry.
Ahead I see some damage upon the sidewalk, like some notation knife,
As I walk beside.
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