16.i.22
745
3.16
in the summer age of moss
here we are 
hollow in the day
from which rare flight
a worm until 
this half sun’s 
telling 
a palm of bright parrots
and hear them feast 
other birds only look on 
the energy of certain objects 
a stone is out of time 
beach and thirst
take under the tongue 
some were first ideas 
or I’ll be skull for instance
when no longer 
the old tobacco tin 
whiff of when 
days into a tree 
of the leaf pour 
string 
junk of other ages 
the letter travelling past lives 
here in another year dodging
and could go on like this 
 
 
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