4.viii.20
215
in the privacy of my own moment
this is the city with its little moon
grass grows over
little scribble
how come
an arrow painted here
we are
prison whisper of was
won’t you know it
hour for a dizzy spin
not telling
all as far as fetched
anything goes
it is a glistening
and or shone
play to the vanity of am
how and why
day comes through
always otherworldly
itches like hell in the moment
but who has time to scratch?
in panoply
all whisker mitts
opened a window out of there
was trained up like a vine for this
there are certain signs made over and over
clarinets struck
things only take so
you with me?
rude saying
a rabble dare and was
a whistle while
it is a thing slipped
we were wrong about this before
gone to the line I draw
doddle yet
in the moment
clothes are a wrestle in
where I always am
jigsaw so we go
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