Keep your dead lilies,
Two reared seeds.
And the crisp red triste
Of a cherry blossom
Grows by the peas,
Of the blue afterglow
On the sameness of his laugh.
As red wallops stifled cicada wood,
The epistle chokes in the water;
it’s been awhile. Scurf of a half
Frost; marked their caged, primped words
“Just wait,” and the hill-side fire was buried under snow,
And scents of balsam withdrew in the valley spring,
Through the ashes of the sea, the misted light
Whet, addressed in the scarce tears of a lilac glow.
“It’s your call now, old mate,” the apple pomace
Generates onto the snow, eyes to the bulb moon,
Dreamy pogonias, overnight, grow beside the picket fence,
Picked by a damsel in the misted light, her eyes
To the ghost that is the mien moon, the lantern prunes.
And the dusk turns to the descent of white mulleins,
Shone by the recoiled daisy haycocks,
Lovelier than the puckered lilies (and other wandering flowers),
Moved to shyness from frail dew in a triste nest,
Silently known to parchment as it flocked.
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